It's Just You, Me, and My Kazoo
by Jinxofthedesert
Summary: It's an accident. Bruce did NOT mean to resurrect Jerome, and if he did, he's no clue why or how it occurred. Though that's not gonna stop Jerome from believing that Gotham wants them together for some reason. And together they'll be, if Jerome has anything to say about it. Needless to say, Jeremiah isn't too pleased.
1. Chapter 1

Bruce found himself awake before his alarm that morning. An hour ahead of schedule. It was odd and he couldn't ascertain what had woken him. The only hint was that the back of his neck was prickling.

He instinctively tensed and sat up, suddenly very awake. The blankets fell off his shoulders, pooling in his lap. Blue eyes glimmered in the darkness as the brunet slipped one hand ⎼ as subtlety as he could ⎼ under his neighboring pillow, finding comfort as his fingers curl around the hilt of the kitchen knife he'd stashed there. He slid it out, keeping it under the covers, and waited in silence for his eyes to adjust, hardly breathing as the seconds ticked by.

When at last he could see, Bruce checked every corner, every odd shadow, squinting and assessing the whole room.

Nothing was out of place. Even the bathroom door was still just as closed as he'd left it.

He was alone.

Just him and the dark and the chirping of birds outside his window.

Shoulders sagging, Bruce exhaled. The knife was released to instead cup his hands within his lap.

With the silence ringing in his ears, louder then any sound could be, he mulled over the past few days. Days spent searching distraughtly for Jeremiah. There had been leads at the start, trickles of information here and there and Bruce had followed them, followed until there was nothing left. No one had seen him. Jeremiah had simply gone off-grid; something that disturbed Bruce to his core, too many times had Jerome vanished without a trace, only for him to come back with some new, elaborate plan. Surely Jeremiah was doing the same, which meant finding him was Bruce's top priority.

If Jeremiah did anything to Gotham . . . well, Bruce couldn't help feeling it was his fault. He had been in the other's company for weeks when he had apparently already been infected by his brother's last trick. And yet he hadn't caught it, had practically been blind to the possibility, had . . . probably been enjoying their time together a bit too much to see it.

Bruce closed his eyes, rubbing at them as he inhaled deeply. _He'll pop up eventually,_ he told himself for the umpteenth time but was just as close to not believing it as he was the first ten times. All he could do was search and hope he found him before Jeremiah enacted his place. He just had to keep looking. Had to _try_. The situation was too personal not too.

He's muttering under his breath, ideas for places to check, details Jeremiah had told him, searching his mind over and over for a clue, a hint, _anything_. There's not much there, just as there wasn't any yesterday and Bruce sighs, wishing he'd known beforehand. If only he had . . . maybe he could have saved Jeremiah from his crushed fate. Perhaps, somewhere, in some alternate universe, he had been able to, and they were still close.

A surge of envy at the very idea has Bruce laughing. It's a laugh without humor and his stomach twists. He can't decide whether he hates or enjoys the idea of it happening differently somewhere that wasn't here, and here he is, stuck with trying to stop Jeremiah before he managed to murder more people.

_Life sure is funny when it wants to be_, his mind sarcastically adds as Bruce finally drags himself from his bed and into the bathroom. He shuts the door, hoping it'll also shut out the thoughts. Of course, this is asking a bit much as they follow him into the shower, hanging on his shoulders like twin weights.

Bruce sets the water too hot and lets it pour over him, burning his skin as the steam hides the rest of the bathroom from view. The burn eventually slides away as his reddened skin acclimates to it. He opens his eyes, water obscuring and making his vision fuzzy and cups a hand over them, wishing things were different. Wishing he'd _seen_, that he'd saved him. He wished so hard that he broke out into a cold sweat underneath the water and grit his teeth when tears pricked the corner of his eyes.

* * *

Bruce had remained in the shower long after the hot water had gone, only getting out when Alfred had come, knocking on the door and asking if he was alright. He'd responded with reassurance, prompting Alfred to leave-though he'd informed him of breakfast being nearly ready. Now, as he paced around his room, practically nude if not for the towel wrapped around his lower half, he was unable to get his mind off the Jeremiah problem. It was like a worm, writhing beneath his skin, prompting goosebumps as he dropped the towel, pulling on a pair of dark pants. He was in the middle of buttoning and zipping the fly when his cellphone rang. The brunet perked up at the noise, grabbing a hold of a turtle-neck (black, of course) and crossed the room, trying to pull the sweater on and grab the phone at the same time. He ultimately failed at this, cursing lightly under his breath before giving a good yank, the piece of fabric allowing itself to be slid into. The whole situation left a ruffled Bruce in its wake, his hair sticking up in strange places. He shook his head at the sight when catching it in the mirror-he'd have to deal with that later-and flipped the phone open.

"Hello?"

"Morning Bruce, I wasn't all too sure you'd be awake at this hour." Bruce blinked, it was Jim Gordon. Not that he minded if it were him, but, at the sound of his tense voice, words clipped as if he had something to tell him and was putting it off-Bruce knew something was wrong. The brunet's eyes narrowed. There was only one person he could think of that Jim would be calling about.

"What happened?" Direct. To the point. Bruce wanted to know. _Needed _to know. _What had Jeremiah done now? Who had died? **Where **is he?_

Jim sighed on the other end, a movement echoing through it as if he were rubbing his face. Whatever was going on, he clearly wasn't happy about it. "A body was found. They called it in. Brought it to the morgue." The very air seemed to abandon the room, tempting Bruce to yank off his sweater as he numbly dropped into the seat before his desk at the window. For a split second, all he could do was watch the grounds outside that were thick with early morning mist. His tongue felt like lead, and his hearing was fuzzy. Could it be? Was Jeremiah really . . . _dead_? For a second, Bruce entertained the thought until his brow furrowed. _No_. Jeremiah dying was too simple. _Too normal_. There was _no way_ he'd die just like _that_ after having embraced his insanity. But who could it be? . . . . Bruce suddenly closed his eyes, the hand not holding the phone curling into a fist where it laid on the desk's smooth surface. A prolonged exhale fell from his parted lips. He knew who it was. Because _who else could it be?_ Both sound and speech came back to him at this realization, a dose of cold water down his spine. It took him a second to realize that Jim had continued talking, only catching a few words at the end before interrupting.

"It's Jerome." Jim went quiet at the brunet's words, leaving the silence to permeate.

Bruce bit his lip. It hadn't even been three days since the incident, but he'd all but forgone any thought pertaining to Jerome having been unearthed, he'd been so concerned, so focused on finding the last remaining Valeska that he'd managed to completely forget. Now though, Bruce closed his eyes and he was back. He could picture the open-grave, where he'd been knocked unconscious and left to wake up in, lying on top of Jerome's corpse for hours before waking up to the caress of the moon. The brunet shivered at the recollection of the stifling silence of the graveyard, the scent of the earth, and the cold touch of the body beneath him. Oh, how Bruce wished they'd just left Jerome there, in that hole, to rot and decay like a normal corpse. Leave it to the maggots to eat, until it was but a skeleton. Another part wishes that they'd simply reburied the body. But _no_. No, instead, they had the bright idea to _bring it back to civilization_.

"I just . . ." Jim sighs, movement again, helping bring Bruce back to the present, he's not _there_. He's _here_, in his room. _Safe_. "I thought you'd want to know, Bruce." Jim's voice lingers, enough so that Bruce can just hear what's being unsaid, _He's still dead_. It doesn't matter though, dead or not, whether it be Jeremiah or a damn corpse that can't seem to stay six feet under, Jerome still continues to haunt him without rest. Perhaps he'd always haunt him, maybe that had been Jerome's last dying wish.

A sudden creak of a floorboard has Bruce twisting in his chair, eyes searching the empty room in apprehension. In an instant, he's up, peeking into the bathroom, down the hallway. So on edge that, for a split second, Bruce swears he could hear a chuckle that sounds suspiciously like Jerome, or the scent of Jeremiah's cologne in the air, but there's no one. Only his own increased breathing and the occasional noise from Alfred making breakfast down in the kitchen. Fingers twitching, the brunet ducks back into his room, closing the door.

Now completely paranoid and heart-pounding, the brunet sits back down, swallowing; he knows what must be done. Gripping the phone, Bruce sits forward slightly, the chair squeaking beneath his weight. "Which morgue is he being held at?" He had to check. Had to make sure -one last time-that Jerome Valeska was, without a doubt, _dead_.

* * *

**Author:** Believe it or not, I started writing this fic because of all the random scenes I posted on Tumblr. They were just for fun. But people liked them so much that I started playing around with the idea that, perhaps, I could put them all together and make an actual story, and here we are! I never would have expected for those posts to lead me here but I'm super excited!

So originally, this fic was going to be Valeyne with some Wayleksa sprinkled in (cause dammit I love BOTH lol) but I've not been playing with the idea of it somehow becoming a Wayleskacest (ship name for Bruce/Jeremiah, Bruce/Jerome, and Jerome/Jeremiah) I'm still in debate on this although I do enjoy writing for that particular ship.  
Another thing to be aware of is that this is an AU where No Man's Land has been pushed until further notice. The graveyard scene between Jeremiah and Bruce happened a few days ago now.

Anyways! I hope you enjoy the story. Comment if you can, I love to see them. Favorite and Follow the story too if you're loving it!

-Jinx of the desert


	2. Chapter 2

The unwelcoming doors to the morgue opened without hesitation, sensing their presence and beckoning Bruce, Jim, and Alfred into the dimly lit building. Bruce, between them, faltered for a second, eyes assessing the inside area with a discerning gaze. Even when he came to the conclusion that _this _indeed wasn't some last minute trap by Jerome -and if it was, it certainly wasn't obvious- the brunet felt disinclined to enter all the while his gut gnawed at him, urging him on, pulling him towards the inevitable.

As soon as Bruce stepped through the doors and over the threshold-the brunet could feel it, like a shadow, casting its presence over him, expanding hands with long fingers that curled about his throat, robbing him of air.

Jerome's body was definitely _here_.

Struggling to breathe, Bruce grasped the edge of his turtle-neck as subtly as he could, feeling the skin beneath. Just as he thought, _nothing_, and yet his breath was stilted. From the corner of his eye he looked at Alfred, then at Jim, neither seemed to be affected by it. Instead they were the ones giving him odd looks. When Bruce said nothing, Jim departed from their group, talking quietly with the woman at the reception desk.

Dropping his hand, the brunet looked down the hall, his eyes passing over each door, and was caught unaware as a wave of nausea hit him over the head. The floor tilted in his vision and Bruce shot out his hand, gripping Alfred's arm as the world distorted before him and his stomach threatened to heave what little he had managed to eat for breakfast.

"Master B, you alright? There was alarm evident in Alfred's voice but Bruce hardly heard it, too busy with staring down that hall, eyes having locked on a particular door. There wasn't anything different about it in comparison with the others. But . . . he couldn't explain it, but through the haze of a world turning on its axis and his stomach doing acrobats, he knew that behind _that _door was where Jerome Valeska's body rested.

Bruce felt a rise in his chest, his own breathing stuttering out and wondered briefly if Jerome was somehow breathing along with him, _through him._ Shaking his head, he looked up at Alfred with desperate eyes.

"Help me. I have to see, Alfred. I've got to make sure." Hearing the urgency in Bruce's words and the frantic gleam in his gaze, Alfred simply nodded and walked him down the hall. At the halfway point, however, the brunet inhaled briefly, and let go of the butler's arm, walking the rest of the way himself, swaying ever so slightly. Jim, having left the woman, came to Alfred's side, stopping and both sharing a bewildered look as Bruce grabbed the door handle and let himself in.

* * *

Not all too far from Bruce's location, Jeremiah was seated before a desk riddled with papers, some with words hastily scrawled over them, others were detailed blueprints and the occasional pink sticky note. Glassy green eyes glanced over them in quick succession, studying a few in turn. Most were plans for the aftermath of turning Gotham into a blank canvas, not that it mattered anymore, that entire plan had gone horribly awry. Jim Gordon hadn't died -as he should have- which lead to his new followers no longer being in favor of him. Of course, he'd suspected they would distrust him eventually, whether or not Jim had died, they had been loyal to his late twin after all, and he had run with a crowd just as insane as he'd been. At least he'd assumed correctly on _that_. They'd burned rather nicely, though he now couldn't go anywhere in his hideout without the smell of burning flesh overwhelming his nostrils. He assumed it would air out eventually, given time, however, on more important matters: Jim. He'd banked so much on knowing Jim well enough to anticipate his actions, and he'd been _wrong_. Thus, a problem, a loose end, and the whole plan burned along with his 'followers'.

Now, here he was, back at square one.

It had left Jeremiah surprised and vexed at the complication, now almost all his bombs were under the watchful eyes of the G.C.P.D and Jim Gordon was still very much alive. All he'd really managed to accomplish was extreme duress for the citizens of Gotham and blowing up a few areas. The whole situation left Jeremiah with his blood boiling and debating on his next move.

There came a knock as if to answer him. Jeremiah remained seated, knowing full well who was knocking. It was the only person still thoroughly loyal to him. There was a moment of silence before the door opened and in stepped Ecco, a cellphone in her gloved-clad hand. "I have intel from a reliable source that Bruce was seen heading to a morgue. Word is that they brought in your broth-" Ecco stopped, the word dying on her lips after catching sight of Jeremiah's blank stare turning into a full-on glare, and switched tactics, "Jerome's corpse." Jeremiah still didn't give her his attention, his eyes fixated on the wall across from him, not really seeing his surroundings. Why had they brought his body to a morgue? Did they suspect he'd done something to it? And, more importantly, _why_ call _Bruce_ in? Surely his Bruce loathed that _mistake_ just as much as he did?

Ecco stepped closer, tilting her head in question when she got no response. "Jeremiah?"

Jeremiah wasn't one to usually make quick responses, but he couldn't help but contemplate the one he currently was considering. He wanted to see _Bruce_, had been for the past few days, he'd missed his friend and now, _here_ was the opportunity. Not to mention the corpse was there and, now that he thinks about it, wouldn't he sleep better at night if he removed it from existence? _Yes_, yes indeed he would.

Straightening up, Jeremiah grabbed his coat, throwing it over an arm and drifting past Ecco with a twitch of anticipation.

"Come Ecco or we'll be late."

* * *

Author: Yeah, another chapter done! So happy about that.  
Hope you're enjoying it. Sorry about there not being any Jerome yet, he will get here, very soon, I promise~  
Until next time luvs! Please comment and leave kudos if you enjoyed it or are impatiently waiting for the next chapter (I know I would be in this situation).  
Have a lovely day!

-Jinx of the desert


	3. Chapter 3

The room that Bruce found himself entering was cold and distant, leaving the brunet to suppress a shiver that brought goosebumps to his skin, the hair on the back of his neck rising as if someone were watching. Within each corner, the shadows writhed in torment at the sudden light, sinking about behind his legs when he closed the door, cutting off the light from the hall and the worried gaze emanating from Alfred.

He needed to do this. _ Alone_. To prove a point. Face the truth and accept it's plausibility.

A resounding click echoed from the door, cutting him off, and the sensation of hands grew, pulling, taunting, _ beckoning _him towards their endgame.

Bruce didn't have to look far. The body was there. On the metal examining table, looking just how he remembers, suit and all and, for a second, he's back, waking up in that grave, grasping at the crumbling earth, trying to find purchase and pull himself away from the corpse below him.

Taking shallow breaths, the brunet stepped closer, keeping silent, the examining table inches from him. He hovered there, eyes raking over the body, noting how there was no rising chest, no laughter, no grin, _ no _ ** _nothing_**. _ As it should be. _At the visual reassurance that Jerome Valeska is nothing more than a stiff corpse, his blood lust and crave for psychotic entertainment non-existent, Bruce finds himself able to breathe easier, those hands slipping from his throat, his own hands finding purchase on the freezing edge of the table, biting at his skin with their frosted bites and numbing the digits. He clutched it with a fierce grip, contradicted by a released sigh of utter relief that he hadn't known he was repressing since he'd entered the room.

"Dead." He muttered. Confirming it. Growing confident in the truth behind it. _Now it's just Jeremiah left to deal with. _ This thought diminished his spirits somewhat, frowning at the memory of his past friend-but was brushed aside when Bruce caught the muttering of Alfred and Jim outside the door, he looked over his shoulder, catching sight of their silhouettes in the doors obscure glass window. He'd have to thank them for allowing him to do this alone. It had to be done. _ He'd needed it_.

Under the influence of such pure reassurance, the brunet inhaled sharply, exhaling into a sigh and feeling immensely better. He felt his resolve on the prospect of finding Jeremiah and bringing him to justice, renewed. Maybe even try and find a cure, surely that was in the realm of possibility? A part of his mind called it doubtful, but the Jeremiah he'd known deserved the chance. _ A chance to regain his sanity_. With this thought now nagging at his mind, bringing on the start of a migraine, Bruce made to let go of the table but a metaphorical tug within his chest stopped him and, against his better judgment, his eyes focused on Jerome's face, soaking in their details. The ashen skin fragrant with the scent of death, those closed eyes -oh, how he could recall their gleam, so dark in the proper light- the scars etched over the face, and that ghastly mouth, seemingly to still bear a smile, even in death. There was a metaphor for that, Bruce was sure, but he was suddenly too unnerved as he found himself overcome with the odd desire to touch the body. He'd purposely avoided it. Had come to the morgue wanting to see the corpse, but _ certainly _ ** _not _ ** touch it. However, even with that previous embedded decision, the brunet's skin was crawling, growing to a full tremble at the base of his spine when a random question emerged within his mind, _ what if this was a trick? _His own lips pursed at the very thought and his hands shook against the edge, having long since gone numb against its touch.

He had to know. Had to make absolutely sure that the body before him was really there, that, at one time in this life, it had been Jerome's.

With a quick look over his shoulder -Jim and Alfred were still in conversation, no closer to the door then before, apparently waiting for him to make his peace- he looked back, bringing up a hand and pressing his palm to the middle of the once-white jacket, atop the stiff stomach. There was no give, too long being dead.

Nothing happened.

This wasn't enough to cool Bruce's raging mind. To anyone else, this would've been enough, and it was, but something compelled him further and, with growing confidence, his hand slid up, gleaming over the buttons, down the lapel, nudging past the tie. He halted there. The last time he'd been this close had been all those months ago, when Jerome had taken him hostage, trying to kill him in the hall of mirrors at the carnival. It was these recollections that stopped him now. _ He's dead, Bruce. _ He willed himself. _ Breathe. _ Harshly inhaling through his nose, Bruce jerked his hand up, wrapping it lightly around Jerome's throat.

Everything seemed to stop at the physical contact. The shadows in the room appeared to move in the brunet's peripherals and Bruce stopped breathing as his ears began to ring. He no longer could hear Jim or Alfred and his surroundings no longer mattered. He held his breath, finding himself frozen, leaning over the body, waiting for something, _ anything _ to occur, though he wasn't sure _ what_. But still, as to be expected, nothing happened, and, just like before, the brunet released the breath he'd withheld, closing his eyes and thanking whatever God there was that this wasn't a trick. At least that's what he was thinking when he heart it, so lightly that, if one had been further away, it would have gone unnoticed but Bruce was _ Right_. _ There_. And he heard it, a barely evident _ groan_. Bruce's eyes shot open when the neck, still in his grip, _ moved_, and wide, disbelieving green eyes met dark, glassy hazel. The sight and shock had the brunet instantly letting go of the other's now warm neck-only for his wrist to be savagely grabbed by the once ** _very _ ** _ dead corpse' _ hand. At this change, Bruce stopped moving, his apprehended hand hovering between them as the very alive Jerome Valeska blinked, squinting his eyes up at the brunet. The redhead didn't seem to see Bruce, his eyes still unfocused, as if having just been abruptly awoken from a realistic dream. It took Jerome a second more before his chapped lips parted in a heinous grin.

"_Brucey_~"

* * *

And there you have it! We finally have Jerome introduced into the fold.  
I honestly really like the slight supernatural thing that was going on (or was it going on in Bruce's head?) which I didn't even think about when I was writing these first few chapters but I like the unease.  
Also, if any of you have any random ideas for the story, scenes, things that could happen, I'd love to hear them. I'm open to any ideas you've got.  
Anyway, I hope you're all enjoying the chapters so far! Leave a comment if you can, I do love seeing them!

Until next time, have a wonderful day luvs! See you real soon.

-Jinx of the desert


	4. Chapter 4

_ "Brucey~" _

All it took was his name being voiced, in _ that _ gravelly tone, from _ that _haunting mouth-for Bruce to be stunned into immobility.

. . . ** _No_**_. _

_ No, this wasn't possible. _

All he could do was stare, unable to react, not after _ this _ . Not after he'd only just concluded that Jerome was as dead as one could be after _ falling _ from a tall building _ and _ landing on a _ car_. And yet, _ here he was _ as if none of it had occurred. _ No_, no, this wasn't possible! _ It couldn't be_, even so, the visible proof was glaring, the redhead's skin flushed with life, grip as strong as ever, and eyes alight with mirth. The brunet couldn't believe that this was real. _ It couldn't be real_. But the grip on his hand was tight, surely to bruise later, and the body pressed to his was warm, the chest rising with actual breath. _ That all felt real. _ ** _Too real. _ **

"Ah, Brucey, were _ you _ the one to wake me up?" Those scarred lips split into a wide grin. "Well, well, here be the twist in our story!" Jerome yanked Bruce even closer, practically pulling him off the floor and on top of him; before this outcome could come to fruition, Bruce shot out his free hand, slamming it palm-down on the examination table, right beside Jerome's left ear and one of his knees cracked into the metal edge. The brunet grit his teeth as a flash of agony throbbed from his knee-cap and ignored it in favor of the current threat. As soon as he did, a part of Bruce wishes he hadn't. Their faces were close, ** _far _ ** _ too close _ for his liking, and he most certainly _ did _ ** _not _ ** _ like _ how he was practically straddling Jerome's stomach. The whole thing was far too intimate. Not even Selina had gotten this close and in such a compromising position as _ this_, for that matter.

"Did you do it the proper way?" The redhead snickered, his other hand -which Bruce had forgotten all about- raising to painfully grip the bicep of Bruce's once free appendage. The brunet's eyebrow twitched, now both arms were seized in some way. "Give me a kiss and everything? Be the real prince and wake the damsel?~ hehe, and here I thought your 'title' of the Prince of Gotham was _ ridiculous_!" The brunet tried to back off a bit, only for the grip on both arms to tighten further and jerk him closer, his nose brushing against the tip of Jerome's as those hazel eyes bore into his with such intensity that Bruce found himself genuinely uncomfortable. He could feel the other's breath on his face, hot and damp, and the brunet couldn't suppress a shudder of disgust. "Hm, well, if ya _ did _kiss me awake, I don't remember, darlin'. How about a refresher?" The question was followed by a bark of laughter, one that Bruce felt more-so then heard, the stomach heaving beneath him. The laugh was cut short though as Jerome flinched -the after effects of being dead apparently still lingering- and the feeling seemed to travel right through Bruce's body, causing the base of his spine to tingle in an odd fashion, and prompting the brunet to finally resonate with reality once more.

_ This was actually happening. _

He _ wasn't _ dreaming_. _

Bruce blinked.

Now wasn't the time to freeze, so he swallowed back his emotions and assessed the situation. First, there was the flinch, which, if that was anything to go off of, then Jerome wasn't at full capacity. Second, he noted where his hands lay and how they were subdued, the grip from the redhead was unyielding, more so than to be expected from someone who had just come back to life-but Bruce could work with that.

It was enough.

Ignoring the fact that both his hands were restrained-Bruce propelled himself forward with the use of his legs -shifting his full body into the swift action- and crashed his forehead against Jerome's with a deafening smack that had the brunet's world spinning and his head aching. Beneath him, the redhead had his eyes shut, groaning, Bruce saw his chance and, fighting through the pain, tried to free his arms, only for Jerome's to yank him forward. Unable to stop, the brunet's nose came into contact with the table. There was an audible, sickening crunch, followed with such intense pain that Bruce had to shut his eyes, letting out a strangled sound as blood ran down from his now broken nose. At his cry, the redhead went curiously still -something that Bruce failed to notice through the blinding pain.

Grinding his teeth, Bruce clawed his hands away from Jerome's, flesh and blood getting caught under his nails at digging too deeply, and dropped to the floor with a subdued groan. He wanted so badly to just lay there, but the brunet forced himself to roll away from the table, getting to his knees and stumbling to stand upright. The world tilted, playing with his mind. Bruce blinked, grabbing at the wall, blood freely draining from his nose and dripping onto the floor. He could feel it coating his mouth and chin like a second skin, soaking into his turtleneck. A hand rose to cup the side of his head, trying to make the world cease its constant trembling, he felt sick to his stomach, and he suddenly is having a very difficult time breathing through his nose. There's a slight grip of panic flash through Bruce's head just as he opts to inhale sharply through his mouth. _ There, that's better. _

When at last he found his footing and the world had come to a still focused image, Bruce glared at a struggling Jerome who was trying to sit up, groaning as he held one hand to his skull, a mirror image to Bruce. Blood trickled down from the redhead's wrist's -from where the brunet had dug in- it didn't bring any sense of triumph, instead, Bruce felt sick, swearing he could feel the skin he'd clawed out beneath his nails even now. Absently, he ran a hand beneath his nose, trying and failing to stop the bleeding.

"You're lucky I'm out of it, heh." Jerome said, managing to prop himself up with one hand, "I'd have ripped those pretty eyes outta their sockets and slit your throat with-" Hazel eyes scoured the room as he sat there on the table, his legs sprawled out before him, a hand waving about to indicate his search, "-ah, well, with a scalpel that I'm sure is around here _ somewhere_." His eyes landed on Bruce who responsively glared back. "You seen one?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed in disbelief, "You really think I'd tell you?" The brunet asked and, to his surprise, he found his voice sounding off, throat utterly parched. He swallowed again, clearing his throat, beginning to debate on calling Jim and Alfred in. Hadn't they heard? Why weren't they bursting in? Hadn't Jerome been speaking to him _ loudly _ before? Or had it only _ seemed _that way due to him having been inches from his face?

The redhead grinned at his response, "If you were _ anyone else_, I'd assume you had it on ya, Brucey, _ darlin'_. But even if you did, you had the chance to kill me just now, and you ** _didn't_**." Bruce frowned at that, watching as Jerome painstakingly twisted his body so that he was sitting on the edge of the table, hands curling around the edge -just like Bruce had not too long ago, when everything had still been right in the world and corpses didn't come to life in the blink of an eye- and, kicking his legs slowly back and forth, similar to that of a child, eyed the brunet up and down. Bruce stiffened at the piercing gaze, those hazel eyes hesitating a second or two on his dripping nose, then coming to rest them on the brunet's permeating gaze. "You've had better days." He grinned, leaning forward, "Sooooo, _ Bruce_, tell me," Bruce frowned, almost preferring the dreaded nickname then having Jerome actually say his name like _ that_. Like it wasn't just another word. As if it held actual weight or consisted of all the answers in the universe, either way, it was something he vastly abhorred. "How long's it been this time around, hm?" Those eyes are still on him, searching, reading, and somehow Bruce has never felt more uncomfortable in the redhead's presence, though straddling him seconds ago came very close, it was so much so that he almost wished Jerome would rekindle his desire to kill him and attempt to do so. Then, at least he could manage to subdue him. But _ this_? Talking as if everything about this situation was ** _normal_**? Yeah, that did _ not _sit right with the brunet.

A smack of Jerome's hand hitting the edge of the table had Bruce stiffening. "You don't look any older, so I'm gonna call it!" Having his attention, the redhead cocks his head, "it's a month." Oh, if only it had been a month, or a year, or _ never_. Never would've been great. "Well?" Jerome sighs, slapping one hand against his shin, the other on the table, it's grip so tight the skin's white. "Come on, am I close or what, dollface?"

Bruce debated for a minute on saying nothing, he could. But at the same time, did it really matter to keep that kind of information from him? Surely there was a reason but he honestly didn't want to stand there and think about it. He _ was _in a room with a psychopath, after all, one that, arguably, was still a bit off due to the rigor mortis, but still a very prominent threat and Bruce wasn't exactly at his best either, the blood persisting in its flow was proof enough. Speaking of which. Without taking his eyes off Jerome, he dug into his pockets, grabbing out a piece of tissue and rolling it, gently shoving it up into one nostril with a grunt of pain. That did not feel good. He definitely broke it.

Across from him, the redhead silently watched, tapping his fingers against his leg, waiting for his question to be answered but, surprisingly not pushing.

" . . . Three days." Bruce got out when, much to his displeasure, the tissue soaked up instantly, leaving him to sigh as the blood flow continued. He's also pretty sure he's got a good nick over the bridge of his nose, but he can ignore that for now. Better to keep his eyes on the real problem whose currently shaking his head, laughing to himself as he sat back, leaning on one arm and looking about the room.

"Guess it gets faster each time!" Those hazel eyes are back on his once more. "And for _ you _ to resurrect me! Out of _ every citizen _ in Gotham! ** _HA_ ** ~ Seems like life has a sense of humor after all." Bruce froze at that comment. Hadn't he thought something similar only that morning? "Though I never thought it would've been you, Brucey. Hm, ain't it just strange how fate works?" Jerome's eyes narrowed, his grin somehow widening _ further_.

"I'd say it's strange that you believe I'd resurrect you _ on purpose_." Bruce stepped forward, a flash of anger rising as he glared at Jerome. "Or, _at all_, for that matter. I did nothing to wake you, and, if I were to guess," he took another step, finding he was taller then Jerome seated like that, "it's simply the wrong place at the wrong time." _ That had to be it. _ He hadn't done anything after all, well, besides touch him . . . . Bruce started at that, blinking rapidly, his anger ebbing away as his gaze drifted past Jerome to stare off to his left in thought. Could _ that _ be it? Had all this occurred because of a _ touch_? He clicked his tongue, hands twitching at his sides. _ No_. No, that was preposterous.

Jerome leaned forward, both his hands on his knees, eyes gleaming up at him, dark in the light, the scars about his eyes shadowing them uncannily. "Nah, I think that's just what you want to believe, Brucey. And, even if it wasn't you, then Gotham wanted you here for a reason. Either way, you bein' here isn't _ no ac-ci-dent_, darlin'~"

Bruce kept his face blank, opening his mouth to answer-

When a knock came at the door.

"Bruce?" That was Jim.

The brunet turned his head somewhat, gazing at the door out of the corner of his eye, still trying to keep Jerome in his peripherals. Why weren't they coming in?

"Master Bruce, I understand the need for privacy in such matters," Jerome tilts his head at that, placing a hand to his chest in mock flattery.

"You missed me that bad, Brucey?" The redhead hissed, stifling a giggle behind a hand.

"But," the brunet ignored Jerome's humored gaze, "locking the door is going a tad bit overboard, wouldn't you agree?"

. . . What? Bruce threw caution to the wind and turned his attention to the door. He hadn't locked it though. He remembered closing it, but other than that Bruce hadn't touched it since coming in so . . . _ how _had that occurred? For the first time, the brunet considered that maybe, just maybe, there was something bigger going on. Why was he the one here when Jerome woke up, why had he been the one touching him when it happened and now the _door_?

"I didn't lock it, Alfred." He called over his shoulder, turning back, only to find a scalpel glinting dangerously beneath his chin, it's wielder now inches away from Bruce, grinning wolfishly at him.

"Well, Brucey, I managed to find that scalpel," he said very matter of factly, "must've fallen to the floor during our very up and _ personal _ tussle on the table. Tell me, was it as delightful for _ you _as it was for little ol' me? Hehehe~"

The brunet was silent, eyeing his enemy, taking note of his stance and remembering his dreaded training with the League of Shadows not that long ago-he shot his hand forward, gripping the wrist with one, then the elbow with his other and twisting it the wrong way. Jerome's grunted, the scalpel dropping from his grip, his other hand had gone to Bruce's hair, yanking at it savagely as the brunet got one foot under his, and using the leverage of his arm, brought him to the ground. The redhead let out a sharp exhale as his back met the hard floor, followed closely by Bruce's knee digging into his stomach.

Having now heard the commotion, there were voices outside the door, some Alfred, demanding if he was alright, Jim's far off but coming closer, and a third person that held something that clinked, _ keys_.

Seconds later the door is banging open, Jim entering, gun in hand. His light blue eyes widened comically at the sight of a very alive Jerome Valeska stuck under Bruce, breath labored, eyes wide, pupils blown till the hazel of his eyes were no longer visible.

"What the hell, he's alive?" Jim asked, his voice a low growl at the new fact.

Bruce didn't answer him, thinking he didn't need to, instead, keeping his gaze on Jerome who seemed to have not noticed their entrance, and if he did, then he didn't care. His attention was firmly on Bruce, examining him once more. The hand that was still clasped in the brunet's hair lessened its hold, becoming akin to that of a simple touch, it's threat gone. Jerome licked his lips, his breathing going back to normal as he opened his mouth to say something. He didn't get the chance.

Jim was there, pulling Bruce back and to his feet, then, with animosity, dragged Jerome up, handcuffing him the moment he stood.

"Jimbo! How lovely to see you here! It's all one big happy reunion. Is my brother with you? That would _truly_ make my day if he were." Bruce stiffened at the mention of Jeremiah, guilt overwhelming him. He was supposed to be out there, looking for him, and yet, here he was, with an entirely new problem on his hands. Bruce issued a sigh, Alfred coming to stand at his side as they watched Jim pull Jerome from the room. _ At least he's in custody, _ the brunet reasoned with himself, he'd be back to Jeremiah hunting soon but . . . Bruce couldn't shake the question burning inside his skull. Why had Jerome woken up? He didn't understand. But he was sure he'd find out, and if that thought didn't fill him with dread then he didn't know what would.

* * *

Author: Finally a new chapter! I'm sorry this took so long, the end of the semester came with a lot of stuff to do. But I got this out! So I'm happy. I'm somewhat debating on how much Wayleska I'll be adding, thoughts?  
Please leave a comment if you enjoyed the chapter, or are enjoying the story so far!  
Hope you liked this one~  
Have a lovely day, luvs

-Jinx of the desert


	5. Chapter 5

The clock in the dash read five minutes before noon as Jeremiah pulled up and parked across the street, killing the engine and peering through the tinted windows. He eyed the two cars parked across the street -recognizing one as Bruce's, the other a police cruiser- and slipped his gaze past it to the front door of the morgue. There were no movement's to be found or any commotion for that matter, nothing out of the ordinary. It looked rather dead, Jeremiah let slip a giggle at the irony. Even so, Bruce was undoubtedly still there. So _close_, yet so _far_. Jeremiah let out a small sigh, his moment of humor soured.

He shifted in the seat, leaning his elbow onto the wheel and resting his chin into the palm of his hand. Beside him -though he scarcely noticed- was Ecco, who had remained silent the entire way, now watched him closely from the corner of her eye. Behind her, in the back seat, was her informant. He hadn't spoken a word since his arrival unless one counted the nod of confirmation he'd given Ecco when climbing in. His side was pressed up against the car door, watching out the window with a bored expression, absently picking at his fingernails, trying to silently ascertain the bosses current mood. Jeremiah, on the other hand, had no idea who he was or where Ecco had managed to pick him up, and he honestly didn't care all that much, his attention currently focused solely on Bruce. The informant was about as important as a speck of dust to Jeremiah at the moment, one he wasn't about to divert his attention to, just in case Bruce decided to venture out.

A perpetual silence permeated the car as Jeremiah became thoroughly engrossed in watching the doors, the informant not daring to utter a sound, and Ecco mildly debating on voicing her thoughts.

After a moment, Ecco turned her head to face the individual in the driver's seat.

"What's the plan here?" She asked, her voice quiet, though loud in the muted car's interior. Behind her, the informant allowed his gaze to slip from the window to his boss, not trying to seem too interested but undoubtedly wanting to know their next course of action.

Jeremiah merely blinked at the question, his glassy green eyes not straying from their mark as his mouth opened to respond, only for the words to die on his lips. Jeremiah found his mouth suddenly dry and his breathing faintly becoming labored, leaving Ecco to narrow her eyes in confusion before turning her head to see what had put him in such a state.

The doors to the morgue had swung open, out stepping Bruce and his butler, Alfred, into the dim light of the afternoon.

Jeremiah clutched the wheel tighter, shifting ever so slightly in his seat, still not completely able to comprehend as to why his heart was thudding so prominently in his ears, and why it only seemed to happen around Bruce . . . Jeremiah squinted his eyes, having caught something odd on the brunets perfect face. Vivid green eyes narrowed on Bruce's face as he froze. freezing in place. _Blood_. There was blood marring his brunets face, emanating from his nose -as far as Jeremiah could tell. He grit his teeth, also taking note of how rattled Bruce appeared to be . . . as if he'd seen something truly jarring. Something that . . . Jeremiah swallowed, something that, Wasn't. Because. Of. Him. Why was it that, everything that happened to Bruce was always from others and not from Jeremiah's doing? Why did _nothing _he did impact Bruce in some way? Enough for him to stare at him for once, like _he _was the center of his universe. Bruce surely was his center, _everything _was for him. His _friend_. His _brother_. His _equal_ in all things.

Jeremiah frowned, watching as the brunet turns to face the doors as if he were waiting for someone else. Although he was rather reluctant to look away, Jeremiah followed his line of sight and found his breath stuck in his throat at who exited next.

Beside him, Ecco stared with wide eyes, leaning forward in her seat with a startled noise, the informant also coming to life, pressing against the window with an authentic look of shock and palpable respect.

It was Jim Gordon, shoving out a laughing, very much **_alive_**, _Jerome Valeska_ out the doors. The redhead's laugh was so harsh and familiar that Jeremiah didn't have to look twice, though he didn't dare look away. His jaw was tense, teeth grinding, and his frown deepened into a dark and threatening scowl, eyes glinting dangerously as he tilted his head, clenching his grip on the wheel, finger locking around it.

The other two didn't dare say a word as they all watched Jim try to pull Jerome down the steps; after a moment, however: "Boss?" The informant turned his head to look at Jeremiah who had gone rigid in his seat with the overload of information he was seeing. Instead of answering, Jeremiah slipped his gun out of his long suit jacket.

"I don't understand," Ecco crossed her arms, "he _died_. We _saw _the body, dug it back up and everything! It- well he, was clearly dead when we did." She sat back with a thoughtful expression laced with confusion.

"So, Jerome's officially back then?" The informant sat forward, betraying a bit of giddiness within his voice just as Jeremiah finished screwing on the silencer and cocking the gun. In one fluid movement, he twisted in his seat and shot the informant in the head. Blood splattered the back seat along with pieces of brain matter as the body slumped, lifeless to the seat.

Jeremiah turned away from it, facing the front of the vehicle once more.

Ecco looked at the body, then back to the other, her posture tense as he ran the barrel of the gun across his gloved fingertips with a sigh. When he didn't do anything, Ecco allowed herself to relax, her previous fear disappearing as she fell back onto ease of being near him.

"I guess you've got more competition now for Bruce's affections, huh?" Jeremiah didn't answer, his attention having fixated back onto Bruce, watching how he moved to convey something to Jim -or was he saying something to Jerome?- who nodded at him, while Jerome was leaning towards him, seemingly unable to look away from his brunet and Jeremiah couldn't stand seeing his brother alive again and looking at Bruce like _that_-

He blinked.

"Wait," green eyes turned to peer at Ecco with a look of disbelief, "what did you say?"

"Competition for Bruce's affections and all," Ecco said, not missing a beat, her eyes drifting from watching the commotion across the street to look at Jeremiah who was staring at her in skepticism and bewilderment.

" . . . . Affections?" Jeremiah's other hand, the one grasping the wheel, tightened, the leather of his gloves issuing a sound with the alteration. "Do explain." He prompted with a tilt of his head, his expression becoming tense.

"Well, you've obviously got a thing for him and . . . I mean, you know, this whole 'brother' thing is a farce right? Cause I'm pretty sure that this isn't how one would treat a brother-"

"They're perfectly normal emotions to have in regards to a brother," his voice was quiet, predatory, and Ecco didn't seem to catch it.

"Did you ever feel that way for Jerome?" She shifted in her seat to face him and his gaze slipped away to stare out the window once more, glaring at his brother who was being shoved into the cruiser.

"Of course not." He responded when Jerome was secured into the vehicle.

"So, basically, you're going off the _assumption _that what you're feeling is brotherly, then? Right? Am I correct in that assessment?"

Jeremiah pondered this for a brief second. "Yes."

"Hm, well then I-"  
Jeremiah slammed the gun down on the dash causing Ecco to jump, immediately falling silent, looking at the other with mild alarm.

"He is to be my brother, Ecco. Perfectly _legitimate _feelings, I _assure _you. I do not need you telling me what I already know." She pursed her lips, opting not to say anything as she looked out the window just as Jim climbed into the cruiser and pulled away from the curb.

Shaking his head lightly, Jeremiah licked his lips in exasperation, wondering where she'd even come up with the idea to begin with. An idea that he actually . . . what? Liked Bruce more than a brother? _No_, that wasn't possible. He certainly didn't like the brunet in that way, he simply wanted him to be his best friend, his brother, his equal, his prince, his-

Jeremiah's body went taut , his breath caught deep within his throat. He'd looked up, back over the street, having searched out Bruce once more, only to find the brunet _looking right back at him._ Jeremiah didn't even consider the thought of breathing as Bruce's eyes narrowed, the butler coming up to his side, asking something. He said something back, his calculating eyes drifting away from their car as the car door was opened for him. Bruce slid in, shutting the door while the butler got into the front.

It wasn't until they'd driven down the street and turned the corner that Jeremiah allowed himself to inhale. Bruce hadn't known, hadn't seen him, He rolled his eyes, running a hand over his face and sighing, of course, he hadn't, they had tinted windows and Bruce most certainly didn't have the ability to see through objects he was pretty damn sure.

Having noticed the other's lack of breathing and presumingly not planning on articulating a command any time soon, Ecco couldn't help but fidget slightly in her seat. A moment passed before she couldn't contain her question.

"What's the plan now?"

Jeremiah rubbed his gloved hand across his mouth, dropping it to join the other on the steering wheel, remaining silent in contemplation. For once, he wasn't all that sure, he'd have to reconsider his options and ponder over his plans now that his brother -he frowned harshly, Jerome most certainly didn't deserve that title, it was reserved for Bruce only- was now alive and well. He frowned, a decision would have to be made and he wasn't entirely sure which option to pick.

* * *

The moment Bruce stepped out the front door's of the morgue, he was met with blinding light. He closed his eyes instinctively, blinking rapidly as the sun's rays washed over his dark-clad self, warming him beneath his jacket. Beside him, Alfred stood, both finding sufficiency in the silence between them, mulling over what had just occurred.

The brunet felt the light breeze brush against the drying blood on his face and he suppressed a shiver, his mind a mess. _How was Jerome alive? _Bruce couldn't wrap his mind around it. It didn't make _any _sense. Of course, the redhead had been revived once before, but he had received stimulation beforehand. This time around? There had been _nothing _to shock him back to life. Nothing to recall his soul from whatever hell he'd been sent too.

Bruce silently looked at his hand, trying to understand, wrap his head about the ludicrous thought that had been buzzing in the back of his head. Had his touch -something so simple and mundane- managed to do this despicable deed? He gnawed at his inner cheek, working his teeth at it as his eyes narrowed. No, he couldn't believe that. There was no proof. It must've been something Jerome had done before falling to his death. Perhaps taken something. For all Bruce knew, the body that had buried hadn't even been him . . . No, that didn't feel right either.

With a doubtful conscious that was both rattled and bewildered, Bruce began to consider the notion that Jerome had actually planned the whole thing, playing with the idea, even if he thought it incorrect-when he heard voices behind him, the brunet's mind paused the process to turn back and stare at the doors, waiting, his chest tightening the louder the sounds became.

A few seconds later, the doors opened and Jerome, who was laughing, was pushed ahead of Jim whose grip was tight on the cuffs around the redhead's arms, a look of loathing on his brow as he shoved him forward.

"HA~ Ah, Jimbo! Tell me, how's it feel to have me back again, hmmm? Isn't it just ah, wonderful? You must be _ecstatic _to be in my presence again~I _always _was your favorite after all!"

Sickened, Jim pressed his gun to Jerome's head, warningly. "Favorite, my ass, Jerome. The _only thing _I'm ecstatic about is seeing you back in Arkham." He said pointedly through gritted teeth, trying to efficiently push the lunatic forward, without giving in to the urge to give him a drastic shove and watch him fall down the stairs. Jerome, seemingly catching his thought gave a chuckle, rolling his head back to grin at him.

"Why don'tcha do it, Jimbo? A _coin-ci-dental _fall down the stairs, that's what you'd tell everyone, right? You'd literally have me head over heels!" He'd dissolved into giggles. Jim glared at him, but the redhead's attention had been diverted as he caught sight of Bruce, his smile widening even further. Jerome glowered at the brunet, lowering his head back down to look at him, his dark eyes seeming almost black as he fell into shadow.

"Brucey! The _man _of the _hour_. Perhaps you'll admit to missing me. Didn't cha, darlin'?" Bruce's eyes narrowed at the other, disbelief radiating from him as he opened his mouth to comment back, defend himself on how he most certainly had not missed him at all-but Jerome quickly shook his head, poking his tongue out to lick his cracked licks. "No need to reply, I got enough answers back in the morgue, and _boy _were they **_telling_**~!" He giggled, eyeing the brunet who frowned back, rather uncomfortable and moderately inquisitive as to what the hell the redhead had managed to glean from their brief skirmish. Bruce was ambivalent on whether or not he wanted to know, although he was already positive that it was inevitably twisted. Jerome's thought process was _always _twisted.

"I never would've missed you," Bruce clarified, looking at him, his mouth frowning as the redhead gazed back at him, searching his expression. Always watching. The brunet hated it, before, it felt as if, whenever Jerome looked at him, he was planning something disastrous for him. Something definitely life-threatening and violent. But now? It was different. His gaze still held that level of devising behind it but there was another layer, past the violence, to something Bruce wasn't sure about. He couldn't read it. Couldn't understand the change. "You being in the ground made things much easier."

Jerome's eyes narrowed, cocking his head somewhat, "did it? Surely Gotham is just as strange as it was three days ago, Bruce." The brunet faltered at his name, his lips pressing together in a firm line that caught the redhead's gaze for a fraction of a second. He leaned forward, as far as he could with Jim gripping the cuffs behind him, and entered Bruce's personal space. Jim's eyes tried to meet Bruce's but found they were solely on Jerome's. "Guess you'll just have to accept my return, darlin', cause, it looks like I'm here to stay."

Bruce slowly breathed in and out, keeping his heart steady as he stared at the other. He could feel the heat radiating off the redhead with their close proximity, though, he was thankful, it wasn't nearly as close as they'd gotten inside the morgue.

"I already have," he said, his eyes also dark as he stared back at him, searching the other's gaze, still feeling off at it, "have a good time in Arkham." Jerome smiled at him as Jim went around to the redhead's side, gripping his forearm with one hand, the back of his neck with the other, and dragged him down the stairs. Jerome's eyes remained on Bruce's even as he was shoved into the back of the cruiser. As Jim got into the front, muttering under his breath, Jerome waved at the brunet who did not return the gesture. He watched, expressionless, as the cruiser pulled away from the curb and drove off down the street. Even as it grew further away, Bruce swore Jerome was still watching him, could still feel his eyes burning into his skull, he grits his teeth at that.

The cruiser was just turning the corner when the brunet felt a chill down his spine, the hair on the back of his neck prickling and he found his eyes focusing on a vehicle parked across the street, an older model car with tinted windows. He stared into it, swearing that someone was looking back at him, and his mind buzzed cautiously. Silently, he took note of its color, brand, and license plate as the seconds flew by. There was something about it that had apprehension gnawing at his stomach.

Alfred, who was still by his side, cleared his throat, prompting Bruce to look at him from the corner of his eye, looking at him inquisitively. "I believe a hearty lunch, after that ordeal, is in order, wouldn't you agree, Master Bruce?"

"Agreed, Alfred. How about a restaurant?" He inquired lightly as his attention and body turned to Alfred who had opened the car door for him, nodding.

"Brilliant plan, Master B." The butler smiled at him, a flash of worry in his eye that Bruce caught and ignored as he slid in, the door shut behind him as he got comfortable in the seat. His eyes subtly flew back to that car, not removing his gaze as Alfred climbed into the front and drove off. When they'd turned the corner, the car now out of sight, did Bruce allow himself to relax into the leather, leaning an elbow against the armrest and placing his chin in his palm, staring out the window.

He calmly considered what to do next. The logical thing was to go back to searching for Jeremiah, find him and stop whatever diabolical plan he was devising. But, on the other hand, Bruce wanted to go see and talk to the redhead as promptly as possible. It made sense that Jerome would know how he came back, it _was _his body after all. But still . . . at least Jerome was in lockup, Jeremiah was still running around out there, free and dangerous. Bruce contemplated his two options the entire trip, warring over which was the better option. The most efficient and obvious one to concede too was Jeremiah, he was _the _major threat right now. However, on the other hand, the brunet couldn't overlook the ache in his chest and Bruce found himself rather curious as to why it was there to begin with. With this in mind, he made his decision, watching as the city flew by and the miles between him and Jerome increased, along with unease.

* * *

Author: Sorry that this chapter took so long! I've been in the middle of working on another Wayleska onshot which I've been working on non-stop for a couple of days now and I was celebrating my birthday with my family last Saturday. But I'm back with chapter five! Hope you guys liked it. If you did, please leave a review, they're always wonderful to see, and if you haven't and are liking it, please do subscribe for future chapters!  
Hope you're all have a lovely day, luvs~  
See you soon.


	6. Chapter 6

It was the following day, Wednesday afternoon to be precise, that Bruce found himself seated at a frigid metal table in Arkham Asylum. He hadn't been sure whether or not going to see Jerome immediately after the incident of his resurrection was the correct choice. _Especially _when pitted up against locating Jeremiah. But now, as he rested his hands on the table's surface, feeling the chill of the room, he was confident he'd made the right one. He simply had to specify which he might have a better chance at and, as much as he wanted to find Jeremiah, he hadn't been having any luck prior to this. Surely going to Jerome first wouldn't hurt his chances in finding the other twin.

Bruce quietly looked at the door across from him, a twitch of impatience on his brow as he forced his gaze away from it. For the fifteenth time, he took in the room with its horrid lighting, filthy ceiling tiles, and its tall arched window covered in metal mesh. He eyed it, shifting to look down. It was a far drop to the cement below. Much too far for anyone to survive. Bruce wondered idly if the mesh was in place to keep inmates from the glass or trying to escape. Probably both. However, it was the latter that had him looking away in displeasure, focusing his attention back to his hands, interlocking them in a professional manner. Perhaps this was the very room that Jim had frequented regularly over the years, inquiring inmates in hopes to receive intel, and here he was, doing the same thing. Although, his elicitation felt a bit too personal for Bruce's liking. Still, he'd have to remember to ask Jim the next time their paths intersected.

The brunet's gaze flicked back to the door, his twitch having transfigured into a deeper frown. It had been ten minutes now since he'd sat down and still no sign of an orderly or Jerome. Naturally, Bruce suspected that, perhaps, they'd forgotten his being there. Of course, then he remembered that Arkham had always possessed questionable and inept staff. Not to mention their care of the building, the brunet couldn't help but eye the room distastefully, unhappy with how run down the Asylum appeared. He could still remember what his Mother had hoped the institute would be in the future: a well-respected, up to date facility for people with sick minds. And here it was, left to rot and decay, almost as if the building itself were sick, becoming exactly what it was supposed to cure.

As if to prove his point, the door on the opposite side unlocked with a loud echo and opened, the bottom of the door scraping against the floor with an appalling grating noise. Bruce blinked, his attention snapping back to the source of the noise. He watched it and, as soon as it was wide open, dark eyes met his own and Jerome grinned in recognition.

"Well, well, well~ If it isn't my beloved Brucey." The redhead stepped into the room, leaving the orderly at the door, his gaze never leaving Bruce's. "Ya know, when they informed me that I had a visitor, I was expecting my dear ol' brother to be here. Demanding how I was resurrected, wanting to know all the little technicalities, like the bookish nerd he is." Jerome grasped the top of the chair across from the brunet, casually sliding it out, the handcuffs on his wrists clanging together. "I can just imagine his face!" Unceremoniously, the redhead sat down in the chair, yanking it as close as he could to the table. When the edge was pressing into his chest, Jerome leaned across the surface, nearing Bruce's side just enough to make him somewhat uncomfortable. Their gazes remained linked as the redhead placed his chin in his palm, leaning his full upper half on his elbow, staring up at Bruce, looking far too pleased. Not exactly comfortable with this new development, the brunet shifted his interlocked hands away from Jerome. He still kept them on the table, but more closely aligned with his chest. Satisfied with that, Bruce looked past the redhead. The orderly had closed the door, presumably standing outside it and the brunet almost balked at the lack of competence. Surely inmates were to be strapped to the chair in some way? . . . _Apparently not_. Bruce withheld a sigh, already excessively displeased with how this was going. Thankfully, Alfred was outside the door behind him. One word and he'd enter the room, and was to knock in approximately twenty minutes. He'd received a very small amount of time, and ten minutes had already been discarded whilst waiting. In contrast, Jerome simply eyed the other in what seemed to be a satisfied expression, almost trying to appear non-threatening. It didn't work. Not with those scars. Not with who he was and what he'd done. "But for it to be you!" The redhead shook his head, his legs crossing underneath the table. Bruce noted that they weren't shackled like his hands were. "I was ah, expecting you to push it for as long as you could," he inched his elbow forward, advancing further across the top of the table. He was inches away from the brunet's laced hands, and only a bit further from Bruce himself. "I was betting on at least two weeks before you decided to visit," his eyes were practically black in the poor light, though, given their decent proximity, Bruce caught sight of hazel every once in a while, "it's not even been a full twenty-four-hours, darlin', and yet, _Here. You. Are._" At the last word, Jerome slammed the hand holding his face down, the table shaking as he seized the brunet's hand. Metal met metal, in the form of cuffs and the surface of the table, though neither noticed as the redhead's hand wrapped tightly around Bruce's, the former dissolving into a fit of giggles.

The brunet pursed his lips, eyeing his apprehended hand, remembering a similar situation occurring only yesterday. However, this time, he wasn't on top of Jerome, straddling his chest in a rather compromising position, so he'd count his blessings. Calmly, he noted the hold on it was bruisingly firm so he cautiously left it there. He'd rather not have a repeat of yesterday. So, he shifted, leaning against the back of his chair, watching Jerome whose eyes had fallen to their hands, almost seeming surprised, if Bruce were to guess. But he could be wrong, Jerome was hard to read a good percentage of the time.

"Whenever you want to stop holding my hand and get to the matter at-" The brunet stopped himself at that, realizing it fit the situation too well and he'd rather not vocalize it.

However, Jerome knew exactly what he had almost said and laughed, his hand tightening on Bruce's so much that the skin was going numb, "you mean, 'the matter at hand'? HA! Sure thing Brucey, but, this hand stays with me." He grinned wolfishly, "since you obviously left it lying right there, just _trying _to bait me, well, now it's mine, and you have no one to blame but yourself." Jerome said, rather childishly. "Now, where were we? Hm, ah! Yes, I remember: you coming all this way to see me when it's not even bee a day! I'm touched, both physically," he squeezed the hand before lessening the pressure on it as if realizing how tight his grip had been, "and emotionally. You must've really missed me, darlin'. Tell me, did you stay up all night debating on coming to see me? Was I on your mind the whole time? So much so that you couldn't get me out no matter what you tried?" Bruce said nothing, only prompting Jerome to lick his lips, those chapped lips with their horrid scars arching up his cheeks, giving him the illusion of having far too many teeth. "Ah, _you did,_ didn't you! I'm honored I kept you up all night, though, I _was _hoping for different circumstances~" Bruce narrowed his eyes at that, catching the implication.

"I assure you, that was not the case, at all."

"So you admit to having thought about me somewhat then?" His dark eyes kept staring into the brunet's, having not once faltered, "did you imagine every possible scenario for this meeting too? Cause, I'm curious just what _other kinds _of possibilities your mind managed to procure for how this would go."

"Not what you're thinking about, I'm _very _sure." Bruce wanted his hand back, he wanted this damn flirtatious conversation to stop, and, without a doubt, wanted Jerome to cease staring at him. He couldn't recall the redhead having been opposed to blinking before, but apparently, he was now and it reminded the brunet far too much of the current Jeremiah. Bruce was, once again, far too uncomfortable in Jerome's presence, which, yes, he had _always _been on edge whilst with him in the past, but that was mainly because he usually had been trying to kill Bruce. But here they were, in the most surreal situation and, to top it off, holding hands . . . well clinging was a better-suited word.

"Ah, Brucey, you really need to be more open minded then. Gotta see every outcome. Yes, I mean all of 'em. If you only ever see me in that dull way you always do, then you're gonna be very disappointed." Bruce nearly sighed in relief when the redhead's gaze fell from the brunets, landing back on their hands. He was silent as he lightly pulled at the skin around his knuckles, pulling it back and letting it go, watching in curiosity as it snapped back to its previous position. Bruce saw his chance. He could yank his hand back now, curl it over his chest, keeping it professional, as it should be. But that might ruin whatever the type of mood they'd created between the two of them. So, he decided to leave it there.

"I am usually disappointed when it comes to you. But, that's enough, Jerome," those dark eyes met his, the light catching them just enough for their hazel shade to return. Even with it illuminated, the skin surrounding his eyes, past the scars, were discolored. Though, whether it was from lack of sleep, or because of all the rough treatment the redhead's face had received, Bruce wasn't too sure. "I want to know how you managed to come back to life this time."

Jerome stared at him, his own eyes squinting at him, head leaning to one side, seemingly studying him and Bruce had to fight the urge to yank his hand away and leave.

"Ya know, the bruising is a good look on you."

Bruce's eyes fluttered shut as he sighed. "Jerome, _focus_."

"Just thought I'd mention it. Don't want ya too self-conscious about your looks."

"I'm not," Bruce said, exasperated, pressing his lips together and feeling the pain emanating from his nose. He eyed Jerome's scars. They'd come far from what they'd been like when he had kidnapped the brunet and brought him to the circus when they'd still been fresh. The only thing keeping it together being a set of staples. Now all but white puffy scars, still very visible, "are you?"

Jerome gave a rough pinch to the middle of Bruce's hand and scoffed. "Nope! Just take in these looks! Perfection at its finest, darlin'. I'd kill to be with someone as attractive as myself." The brunet stared up at the ceiling. Why did he even ask? He should've suspected some kind of narcissistic answer.

"You already do that, now, back to my previous question-"

"Ah yes, the million dollar question of the day: How ever did I come back?" Jerome scraped his teeth over his bottom lip. His hand had moved up the brunet's, now playing with the edge of his sleeve. He shook his head after a moment, "I'm somewhat hurt, Bruce," at the mention of his actual name, Bruce tensed, which didn't go unnoticed, "here I thought it was going to be a personal visit. I was really looking forward to ah, an _intimate _conversation, ya know, whatever they call it these days, a heart to heart and all that shit." Jerome's hand had wrapped around the brunet's wrist, the texture of his shirt pressing against his palm.

Bruce leaned forward, frowning at the other, "I can guarantee you, that, you're the only one, out of the two of us, that wants that. All I want to know is how you were resurrected." Their faces were close now. Almost as close as they were back at the morgue, but not quite, thankfully.

Uneasy at their proximity, Bruce shifts -about to pull back- when Jerome moves first, spreading out his legs beneath the table, his feet coming into contact with the brunets, where they remain. Bruce tensed, moving no longer being an option as his feet were pinned between the others.

"Why do you think I would know? I was, ah _quite _preoccupied at the time you're suggesting I concocted this _elaborate _scheme." Jerome says, toying with the sleeve of his sweater, his hold light. So light that Bruce could easily reclaim his hand. He took a second to consider it before deciding against it. That would only provoke the redhead at this point, no need for that when he was getting some form of cooperation (even if he doubted how long it would last).

"I've got an alibi and everything! Though, any witnesses to it are a bunch of wriggling maggots underground, -who I'm pretty sure are missing me right about now. We really had a connection, ya know? Very physical one, I'm sure you'd understand-" he grins wolfishly at Bruce at that, "so you might have a hard time corroborating with them on my precise whereabouts at the time. So, if that doesn't do it for you, I would suggest a newspaper. I'm sure they wrote a lovely eulogy for me," he eyes Bruce in contemplation for a moment, "unless you read it? Oooo, you did! Don't deny it, I saw that look just now." Bruce scowled lightly at his easy to read expressions. "Was it good? Did it tell of all my triumphs in magnificent detail?" Bruce felt the redhead's foot press harder against his own at that, which, again, he ignored. He was sure that, Jerome wanted him to comment on any of it, wanted it to be a big deal. There was no way he was giving him that.

The brunet placed his only free hand on the table, using it to lean his weight on. "I'm afraid you were so insignificant that you didn't even make the front page." Jerome scoffed at that.

"Well, they obviously don't know what true art is," his grin fell from his face, displeasure replacing it. "Trying to gas the whole city while blowing up people with strapon bombs about their necks? _That _is front page material! Hands down!" He shook his head, staring up at the ceiling at the lack of consideration his actions had received, "you people lack _vision_."

"Or," Bruce tilted his head, "we all have sufficient eyesight and sanity to see just how repulsive and detrimental your plans were."

"Ah, Thank you for the compliment, they were indeed pleasantly horrible, all done in good fun~," the redhead smiled widely before rolling his eyes, "even so, you're eyesight is clouded, while mine, _**mine**_, dear Brucey, is clear enough to see the cracks, the cracks you all have, along with your precious Gotham." During his dialogue, the redhead's feet had constricted even more around Bruce's and his other hand had found the appendage the brunet had just placed on the table. Both wrists were now procured, leaving Bruce to rather dislike the predicament he now found himself in. He felt boxed in. As if Jerome had been using the conversation as a ploy to simply get closer. The brunet grit his teeth, leaning his head back as far as he could in his current position.

"The only cracks you see are ones you _want _to see, just to justify your actions."

"You would say that, wouldn't you." Bruce looked at him, trying to read what his next move would be. His stomach churned, finding nothing.

Jerome snorted, wrinkling his nose and sniffed, "don't stare too hard now, Brucey. I may start to believe you're actually seeing what you like over here. Though, why wouldn't you," he grinned widely, the brunet catching sight of his slightly sharper canines, "I am _quite _the catch, ain't I? _Especially _when compared to my dear brother."

Bruce let out a sigh at that, almost wanting to leave at that very moment. "I am not going to answer that question, Jerome." The redhead blinked a few times at that. His smile faltering for a second before he lent forward even more -now centimeters away- and stared up at him through his eyelashes.

"So you _do _then."

Bruce hesitated at that, "what?"

Jerome gave a snort, removing his hold on Bruce completely, and giggled into his gloved hand. With his appendages free, the brunet stretched out his stiff fingers, bringing them closer and rubbing the damp hands together. He crossed them safely over his chest this time around, back to being professional . . . well, as much as he could be with Jerome's legs secured about his feet.

"Ah, is little Brucey attracted to my brother and I? Hm? Now _that's _a _**laugh**_-"

"I'm going to say this slowly, Jerome." Bruce frowned, his dark eyebrows narrowing.

Jerome, his laughter dying off, now gave Bruce his full attention, nodding in a way that the brunet new was mocking. "I am _not _attracted to you or Jeremiah."

The redhead licked over the front of his teeth, huffing in disbelief, "no need to lie here, Brucey, it's just the two of us."

Bruce sighed, surprised when Jerome didn't continue.

"Do you really think, after everything you two have put me through, I would be? Or ever was? You're crazier than I thought."

The redhead nodded his head, seemingly in agreement as he stretched his arms over the table top, there were no arms to grasp, so instead, he gripped the edge of the table, the back of his fingers brushing Bruce's sweater. "See, that's the thing, Bruce." The brunet frowned at the use of his name once more, however, this time, Jerome purposefully met his gaze, allowing for Bruce to realize the other had caught on to the discomfort. He swallowed, wanting so badly to look away, but that would be admitting defeat, so, instead, his firm gaze remained on the other's as Jerome continued, "that's _exactly _why you would be."

At the response, Bruce shook his head, "no, that's incorrect. It would only result in the opposite."  
"Hm, you sure about that?" He jarred his head slightly to the left and right from his spot across the table, groaning at the loud crack his neck made. "So, it worked then. Jeremiah finally accepted his true nature and turned out to be just as crazy as I am, huh?"

Bruce opened his mouth, prepared to say something, then closed it in shock, blinking rapidly. He stared at Jerome, swallowing hard before trying to rid his face of the emotions that had traversed it. _Steel wall, Bruce. Steel. Wall. _He took a breath, relaxing his facial muscles just as those eyes met his. "I said nothing of the sort."  
Having already made his assumption, Jerome ignored his response.

"Better or worse than me?"

Wrapped over his chest, Bruce's hands balled into fists against his sides, not able to hide the glare that overcame his face. _Damnit_. He hadn't even realized he'd given anything away . . . he mentally sighed, this was all just one big game, one he clearly had forgotten he had to play with Jerome.

The redhead noted the look on the brunet's face, with a growing sense of glee. He tapped his hands against the others edge of the table, letting go and straightening his fingers, coming into contact with Bruce's sweater. "I'd say he must've done a number on you then. Did he get you wrapped around his finger? Then stab you in the back? He's good at that, darlin', it's ah, a personal skill of his, one he never would've admitted to, back then, but probably would now, if I'm going off your reaction."

Bruce dropped his eyes, sighing. A severe bout of guilt curling over his mind. Jeremiah was the last person he wanted to talk about at the moment. It still hurt to think about his friend and how angry he was that he hadn't been there to prevent the spray sent by the very person seated across from Bruce now.

Wait.

What had happened with Jeremiah, the gas, it had been created by Jerome, surely, if there was _anyone _who could help bring back the old Jeremiah . . . then it was _him_. At the realization, there was a rush of hope within his lungs. The thought of having his old friend back had Bruce almost smile, he caught himself though, remembering who he'd have to communicate with to do so. He eyed the redhead who was looking up at him -seemingly waiting, watching him think- and decided that now wasn't the right time. Maybe on his next visit. _Deal with one issue at a time, Bruce. _Somewhat sickened with the consideration of another future appointment, Bruce took a deep breath, filing away his assessment, and returned to the current conversation.

"We were . . . friends."

Jerome rolled his eyes, exasperated, sighing loudly. "Ugh, don't give me a sob story! I don't wanna know what you got up too with him, . . . unless," he eyes Bruce with interest, dropping his gaze to give him a once over, "there's some juicy details mixed in?" Jerome's eyes met Bruce's inquisitively, eyebrows raising suggestively.

The brunet couldn't help but flush at that. "Of course not!"

Jerome gave a breathy laugh, his fingers wrapped in Bruce's sweater now, curling the fabric between his digits. "HA, ok, ok. Jeremiah's a bit too _boring _for you anyway. Kid never would've held your attention for long. Nah, _I'd say_," the grip on the brunet's shirt tightened, faintly yanking on it, the sweater flexible enough the Bruce hardly noticed and purposefully ignored it, "you'd want someone with a bit of _fire_~" Somehow, Jerome manages to lean even closer, which leaves Bruce a little confused on the fact of _how_, but it's _Jerome _and he's practically on his side of the table now, gloved hands full of his sweater and looking up at him. Bruce is almost happy he forbade Alfred looking in on the camera's, instead waiting for him to vocalize his desire for him to enter the room - he can just imagine the butlers reaction to . . . whatever the hell this even was. "Hm? _Am I right?_ I think you'd rather enjoy something a bit more . . . ah, _forceful_." Those eyes are boring into his, a bit too calculating for Bruce's liking and far too _eager_, "that resourceful kitty cat of yours, Selina," he made a face at her name, "not doing it for you? Is that why you're here? Cause that's a reason I can get behind, _literally_~" He giggled, closely eyeing Bruce, sizing him up, looking for a reaction.

Bruce's jaw twitches at that, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled through his nose, a flash of pain pulsing from the action. "I am quite satisfied with my relationship concerning Miss Kyle, and, as usual, you're wrong about me, I would never-"

"Am I?" He's close, _far _too close, "are you _absolutely _sure, Bruce?"

He doesn't hesitate, "yes." Bruce tries to back away a little, but finds the hands on his shirt have collected enough of the fabric, that it's taut in his grip, holding him in place, keeping him exactly where the redhead wants him.

"Then why come to me, only a day after? Makes you seem a bit desperate, huh? I _**know **_desperation, Brucey, and it's a good look on you." Bruce unwraps his arms from about his chest, placing them on the table, one on either side of Jerome.

"I wanted to know why you were alive."

The legs around the brunets tighten a fraction and the room is starting to feel stifling and overly constricting. Bruce swallows, so close now that, even though the other's eyes are in shadow, he can see the hazel in them, clear as day.

"Well, I think it's rather obvious. Gotham wanted me alive for a reason."  
Bruce frowned at that, "you honestly expect me to believe Gotham, _itself_, resurrected you? . . . You do know you're talking about a _city_, right?"

"Nah, now _that _would be crazy! And I am anything but that." Jerome says with a straight face. "A city being sentient, you read too many stories, Brucey." He muttered lightly, both now sharing the same air and Bruce couldn't help but tense when he felt the other's breath on his face. "What I'm saying is that this screwed up city recognized how tightly our little string of fate is and made the conscious decision to bring us back together! Oddly considerate, wouldn't you agree, darlin'?" The hands in the brunet's sweater tightened, inching Bruce even closer, the tips of their noses brushing. He thought they'd been pushing it a moment ago, but now, with the redhead not even millimeters away, Bruce was about at his limit, _especially _when he noticed the other's gaze slip momentarily from his eyes, past his nose, down to his-

Bruce inhaled harshly, bringing up his hands from the table and shoving Jerome away with as much force as he could. However, with how connected the redhead was, he hardly moved back a few inches. "What's wrong, Brucey? _Too close?_ And here I thought we were even closer at the morgue, hm?"

"I would rather prefer we weren't and _instead _getting back on topic," Bruce answered lowely, his hands on Jerome's shoulders, gripping the striped Arkham suit, hoping to simply keep him at arm's length.

"But I rather like it, darlin', and would prefer to keep our conversation going, _Just. Like. This._" The redhead grinned at him, his scarred face still so damningly close. It was too much for Bruce, who grit his teeth, locking his jaw and pulled his hand back, slamming a fist into Jerome's cheek. The sudden impact wrenched the other's head to one side. Still, he didn't let go, hands rigid in their hold on the sweater. The brunet faltered at this, and Jerome threw back his head, laughing hard, his cheek having split a tiny bit from Bruce's knuckles having dug too deep. "You-" he shook his head, trying to talk through his giggles, "You should've _seen _the _look _on your face!" Those eyes met the brunet's for a second, tears prickling in them from his amusement, and, just like that -with the redhead still shuddering, his stomach heaving with laughter- he let go of Bruce completely, smacking one hand to the table in glee. "It was priceless!" Bruce scowled at him, crossing his arms over his chest, not at all humored by the other's actions. Of course, when was he ever?

Jerome looked at Bruce, his giggles slowly ebbing off, leaving him with only a smile, "Ah, come on, darlin', you gotta admit that was hilarious," he leaned forward a little, tilting his head before shaking his head with a melodramatic sigh, "you have no sense of humor, Bruce. How you live with that stick up your ass is beyond me!"

"I do have a sense of humor, I just don't find you funny."  
Jerome laughed at that, "_you_ actually laughing at something? That'll be the day, Brucey."

The brunet rolled his eyes, lowering his arms from around his chest to rest them in his lap, "that aside, we _both _know it wasn't the city, so how did you manage to come back?"

Placing his hands flat on the table, Jerome leaned back in his chair, not at all straight in his position, and looked up at the ceiling, "Fine, back to your dull original question." The redhead squinted his eyes, staring off into space, as if trying to find what they'd previously been discussing, floating over their heads. He apparently finds it because his attention falls back to Bruce. He doesn't say anything at first, instead, going back to his original position, leaning his chin on his open palm, though, on his side of the table, Bruce notes, gratefully.

"Who says it wasn't you?" The brunet frowns, "you think I had a _plan _when I fell? Well," he absently twirled a cuffed hand in the air to emphasize his point, "besides the _whole_," the finger flitted in the air for a second, his voice lowering, "_brother thing._ You give me far too much credit, Brucey. Besides that, I was under the assumption that my staying in the ground this time, would be permanent. It was _**such **_a pleasant experience this last time around, made a whole lotta friends with the maggots, and I'm pretty sure they're missing me about now. Don't wanna keep an eager audience waiting, you know? Hehehe~"

Bruce gazed at him for a moment, "so, you have no idea how you came back then?" His eyes dropped off to the side, considering other options. It was possible that Jerome was lying, however, after all his years of knowing the redhead, when had he actually lied right to his face? He was usually blatantly obvious and vocal because he didn't care. So, there was that, but, if that was true then . . . was it really Bruce who had done it? That, in itself, was a ludicrous idea, but it was the only one left that could explain what had occurred. Unless he accepted Jerome's own theory which was equally, if not more, insane as the one the brunet was considering.  
"Ah, Brucey," Jerome leaned forward somewhat, "I think I'll have to take back what I said about the bruises and desperation, worry and confusion are also a good look for you. I wonder how bloodlust would look, probably wonderfully, don't you agree?" Bruce blinked, coming back to the present, his gaze hardening as he gazed at the giggling redhead.

"And who knows, this _is _Gotham, after all. _Nothing _is _normal _here. You should know that by now."

"But you were dead, Jerome. You were dead in the cemetery and you were definitely dead in the morgue."

Jerome gave him an odd look, his eyebrows furrowing a little, "cemetery? . . . Are you saying they actually buried me? HA! I wonder what they put on that tombstone, I'm gonna bet it was something along the lines of 'third time's the charm'." He grinned at that, licking the edge of his lips, right where the scars started, "so you were at the cemetery, huh? Did you go for my funeral too or they not even hold one? Orrrr were you visiting my grave? Ah, how sweet of you Bruce, I have no idea you'd miss me so much after my passing. " The redhead pressed a hand to his heart mockingly. "Makes me almost rethink going so soon."

"If there was a funeral, I wasn't told about it. And the only reason I was present was because Jeremiah had decided to dig you back up."

Jerome's face fell at that, staring hard at the brunet. "He dug me up?" His dark eyes looked far away for a moment, "now why the hell would my brother do that?" The look didn't last long as he slammed a hand to the table, Bruce almost jumping at it, "HA, and here I said you had no sense of humor!"

"But he did," Bruce emphasized, placing his hands on the table and leaning towards Jerome, "he dug you up so too-"

There was a knock on the door.

The words died on the brunet's lips, looking over at the clock on the far wall. Had it really been twenty minutes? . . . Well, he had been made to waste ten, so it wasn't too shocking. Bruce frowned lightly, shutting his eyes for a second before standing up. He didn't get too far. Jerome grabbed onto his forearm with a harsh grip, standing up abruptly, his handcuffs smacking together loudly.

"Nuh-uh, Bruce" He yanked him forward, so he hovered over the table, cutting off the circulation in Bruce's arm. "So. He. Could. What?"

The brunet remained still, hardly breathing as the other glared at him, his face devoid of humor, whatever mirth had been there before having long since died away. Even so, his scars still gave the illusion that he was. They were still hideous, the scars, though they were slowly getting easier to look at.

"He wanted to rally your followers and prove to me that he had the last laugh." The grip on his arm tightened, surely to bruise later.

"He took my followers?" Jerome scoffed, looking away from Bruce, his eyes staring at nothing, though his mind was millions of miles away. He blinked, peering at the brunet in thoughtful consideration, "he wanted to prove it to you? HA, what, are you trying to tell me that he's obsessed with you?" Jerome licked over his dry lips, shaking his head with a snort.

Bruce wasn't entirely sure how to answer, so he didn't. Simply stared back at the redhead, who must have caught something since he frowned.

Seeing his chance, the brunet tore his arm out of Jerome's grip and backed up, away from the table.

"He may be. I'm not too sure as of yet. But if he's anything like you, then probably." Bruce said stiffly, feeling more confident the further he was from the other. He knocked on the door, twice, hearing it unlock as he stared back at the redhead.

Jerome was silent for a moment, then, his grin came back. "Hm, are you trying to tell me that I'm obsessed?" He smacked his lips, eyeing the brunet up and down, "you may have a small point, but how can I not, you're a bit too much fun for this screwed up city, Brucey, I'll admit." The door behind the redhead opened and the orderly stepping into the doorway. Jerome didn't even look at him, his shoulders dropping as he dramatically sighed. "Ah, well. Guess our time's up, huh? Too bad. We were just getting to the interesting stuff." He placed his hands on the table, "but you'll be coming to see me again, I'm sure."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at that. He had already decided he would, against his better judgment, but still, having him voice it to him, with that smile . . .

"You'll be missing me, obviously." Jerome winked at him lightly, the orderly coming up behind him. "I'll try and not miss you too much either, darlin'. May just have to kill a few orderlies and get out just to visit you if you don't." He smiled -the orderly stiffening behind him- and the brunet watched as they left the room, the redhead waving at him just before the door closed. Bruce breathed easily as it shut, rubbing a hand over his face, brushing through his hair as he turned and opened the door. He didn't say a word to Alfred as they left, climbing into the car. As he seated himself, buckling in, Bruce found that there was still an ache. An ache that he honestly didn't understand, so he ignored it, even as it grew heavier.

* * *

There was a knock on the door, a very specific one, that had Jeremiah rolling his eyes. He'd informed Ecco not to bother him, not when he was trying to figure out how to reclaim his bombs from the G.C.P.D, and, more importantly, how to get rid of his brother problem. As much as he despised Jerome, he simply couldn't have him breathing when Bruce was to be his new brother. It just wouldn't be fair to his lovely brunet. So, Jerome had to go. Especially, after he'd looked at Bruce, and how Bruce had looked back. How his attention had been so solely focused on him. That gaze, that look, was meant for him, and _**only **_him. He wasn't going to share. Not with anyone, and most certainly not Jerome.

The knock came again.

"What?" He called, vastly annoyed as he twirled his pen, looking over the table filled with scattered papers. His notebook was open before him and he crossed out a plan concerning Bruce. No, that was far to unimpressive. _He wanted his attention_. Wanted him to never look away. And for _that _to happen, it had to be a plan of utter perfection. Nothing less was fit for his soon to be brother and best friend.

The door handle rattled, clearly locked.

"I've got an update on Bruce." Jeremiah perked up at that, sitting straighter and pressing the end of the pen to his lips.

"Yes?"

"He went to Arkham. Though I don't have confirmation, I believe he went to see Jerome." Jeremiah's grip on the pen tightened, his skin becoming even whiter than it was due to the pressure. He glared hatefully at the notebook, tense, as he forced himself to breathe through his nose. Through the haze, Jeremiah saw the name of his brother on the page, where he'd written it, and crossed it out with the pen. He did it again, and again, _and again_. Till the tip of the pen tore through the page, a stark, black, ragged hole left behind. Twitching, he let go of the pen, his fingers stiff and ripped the page right out, tearing it into little pieces before disposing them into the trash bin. He was not going to allow Jerome to take his place in Bruce's mind. He. Was. _Not_. He'd place that mistake back in the ground where he belonged. Bruce would thank him, he was sure. He was positive. And they'd be together. Forever.

* * *

Author: Chapter six! Finally~  
I hope to be seeing you all soon and that you enjoyed this chapter.  
Have a wonderful day, luvs.


	7. Chapter 7

Arkham wasn't even a speck in the vehicles back window when Bruce twisted in his seat to watch it, all the while rubbing at the back of his hand. It was the very hand that Jerome had held for the first portion of their session and it, along with his forearms, _burned_. The skin crawled, prickling with the linger of the redhead's phantom touch. Overall, Bruce felt off, almost uneasy, the sensation only worsening, as he watched the asylum become smaller and smaller behind them. It's windows caught the afternoon light through a sliver in the clouds, reflecting back to him, almost as if they were blinking, bidding him a silent farewell. He blinked back, dismissing the idea and wondered which window was Jerome's. Did he even face the front or did he have a side view? He hadn't cared to ask at the time. All that had mattered was ascertaining how the redhead had come to be revived, and that hadn't gone anywhere. Somehow, Bruce felt even more at a loss than when he'd first sat down at that table.

They crossed the bridge, entering the city, and the last remnants of Arkham disappeared from view. With the visual reminder gone, Bruce turned to look down at his lap, eyeing his hands. He traced a finger over the aggravated skin. There were blemishes on them, ones that would only darken by the following day, becoming ones of black and blue. _A visual reminder_. The brunet frowned. Even when Jerome wasn't there, he still found a way to be a constant reminder. He sniffed, looking out the window, observing the people walking up and down the sidewalk. Some were vacant, appearing unhappy, others were homeless, and, at one point, they passed a few children playing in an alley. The brunet smiled at the kids, reminding him of Selina. His gaze was ultimately cut off as they turned a corner.

Overhead, there was a loud rumble that had Bruce shifting closer to the window, looking up between the buildings and watching the sky. He played with the hem of his sweater as he watched the sun vanish from sight. It had been sunny before he'd gone into Arkham Asylum. The sun bright, promising to be a pleasant and peaceful day. When, in reality, it simply was there to mislead those who had believed it's limited generosity to be one of prolonged promise. It now was a mass of clouds, rolling together, one over the other until they became a unified mass. Flashes of lightning peaked every few minutes and the brunet could hear the occasional bout of thunder. With all that commotion and light show, one would expect rain, but there was none.

Alfred -having been quiet ever since they'd left the Asylum- glanced back at Bruce via the rear-view mirror, and cleared his throat. The brunet didn't look at him, seemingly not to have heard, however, he caught the slight tilt of Bruce's head, acknowledging that he was indeed listening.

"Not to pry, Master Bruce, but . . ." Alfred hesitated, "did you get anything outta him?" The vehicle came to a stop at a light, the butler's attention solely on the mirror now, waiting for a response. Bruce didn't even blink at the question, his eyes fixed on the sky as he observed a lightning bolt crackle across the sky, forming a grin. It reminded him of a certain redhead, however, it made him compare it instead to Jerome's scars for some reason. He inhaled at that, pushing the irregular comparison to the back of his mind.

"No," Bruce said. "At least, nothing of value." Oh, how he wished he had.

The sound of thunder followed soon after the statement, the brunet's hands having ceased playing with his sweater, brushing over each other in consideration. His gaze became thoughtful. "He didn't seem to know how he was resurrected." The words were hushed, almost as if they were an afterthought. Bruce felt absent as if whatever had been connecting him had been snipped, and all that mattered was trying to discern all that Jerome had said and what had to happen next. He felt as if he were back in that room, the cool metal under his hands, sitting across from the redhead, still within his grasp. _Nothing is normal here_. He had been right about that, all things considered. Gotham was an odd, versatile city where literally anything could happen. People could do incredible and horrible things and the dead didn't seem to stay six feet under.

"Well, he could've been lying then, couldn't he? You shouldn't be believing everything that chap says." Alfred's tone had Bruce coming back to the present. He blinked a couple of times and met the butler's gaze just as the first raindrop hit the window.

"You're wrong." He pressed his hands together, firmly, adamantly. "I know Jerome. In all the times I've met him, he's never outright lied to me. Side-stepped questions, absolutely. But never lied, Alfred." A second raindrop hit the glass, then a second, a fifth, and, by then, they were in a downpour. "Jerome isn't lying. I believe that he believes what he said, even if it's crazy." Because that's all they were, assumptions from a person so disengaged from reality that the idea of a city deciding to resurrect a person was seen as _logical_. To think, Gotham, making the _conscious decision _to revive someone who was _completely_ unhinged, and unleash them back on the streets. _No_. Just no. There had to be another reason. A plausible one, fixed in reality. One he could actually pick apart and find its source.

Bruce bit at his bottom lip, returning his gaze out the window. The sky was now dark, clouds rolling in the wind, lightning originating from them in flashes, igniting the whole coverage. Bruce's eyes narrowed, a fraction of a plan forming within his brain.

"I've got to go back to the source." He mumbled.

"What?" Alfred's eyebrows furrowed as he drove through a green light.

The question was, what was the source? Where had all this begun? Who had started it? Jerome simply could not have randomly come back to life. Not on his own. There had to have been someone to set the spark so to watch it all burn when it was all said and done. Bruce quietly thought back to the other day. It had been a call. A phone call that had started it all.

"Alfred, turn us around and head to the police station."

* * *

Ecco's phone beeped at an incoming text. Her gaze slipped from Jeremiah who was leaning over his desk, most of his papers having been thrown to the floor, now a jumbled mess, making it difficult to even see the floor.

The notebook was one of the few things still left on the table's surface, which Jeremiah was presently glaring at as he crossed out another idea, over and over -almost obsessively- with his black pen. He was just about one outburst away from chucking the notebook into the waste bin and lighting the whole damn thing on fire. It might actually make him feel better. Though it was sure to be short-lived. He'd still be upset over his current situation.

Ecco looked up from her phone, shuffling her feet a little and flipped her phone shut. "I have confirmation." The only acknowledgment Ecco received was a slight tilt of Jeremiah's head as he ripped out another page in the notebook. It was added to the collection on the floor. "Bruce _was_ visiting Jerome."

Jeremiah's eyebrow twitched and he slammed the notebook shut, throwing the whole thing into the waste bin and whirling on her with a gleam in his eyes. It wasn't a pleasant gleam. Ecco almost flinched at it, then remembered that Jeremiah would never hurt her. That gave her comfort as she held her ground, placing her hands behind her back.

Jeremiah, on the other hand, was seething beneath his skin, fingers twitching to curl around something. A knife. A throat. A-

He curled his fingers into fists at his sides and forced himself to take a deep, long breath. Watching this, Ecco felt a jab of sympathy for him. She hated seeing Jeremiah so distraught and couldn't understand why Bruce didn't reciprocate. At least to some level. Not to mention the new edition of Jerome. She was sure that, whether or not Jeremiah accepted the depth of his feelings, it would only worsen the entire ordeal. Ecco bit at her lip, the other looking at her, yet not really seeing her. His gaze slid from her, green eyes erratic as he turned away.

"Bruce should _only _see _me_, as_ I only see him_." Jeremiah opened a drawer in the desk, sliding out a lighter. He picked up a paper from the floor and held it to the flame. It grasped onto the paper, eating at it hungrily. Expressionless, Jeremiah dropped it into the waste bin. The notebook and other papers caught fire, smoke rising from it as he turned away. "I'll _make _him see. Even if I have to remove everyone else. He doesn't _need _anyone else, _only me_."

Ecco nodded, though Jeremiah was no longer looking at her. He'd taken out a photo from his breast pocket, eyeing it affectionately, an obsessive glint within his irises. He traced a gloved finger over it, sighing lightly, muttering Bruce's name beneath his breath.

Looking between Jeremiah and her phone, Ecco quietly left the room, leaving the other to sit in his chair and stare at the picture, talking to both it and himself. It broke Ecco's heart seeing Jeremiah this way. She wanted nothing more than for him to be happy, so, she decided, as she made her way through their hideout, to take things into her own hands. He would be so pleased, she was positive.

* * *

Author: Finally another chapter! I'm sorry this one is a little shorter. Hope you enjoyed it though! Please leave a review if you have a moment! I would love to hear what you think about the fic so far.

Have a wonderful day, luvs~

-Jinx of the desert


	8. Chapter 8

Upon entering the police station, Bruce found that it was an amalgamation of activity, unable to avoid being hit with a sense of claustrophobia at how crowded it was. Not to mention the overwhelming sense of distress that came off the area in waves, seeping into the brunet's bones like a virus. It repelled him so much that Bruce had to fight back the urge to leave, instead, forcing himself to take in the area. While he did, he consciously pulled down the sleeves of his shirt, successfully hiding the reddened skin of his wrists. When he was sure they were thoroughly covered, Bruce stepped out of the doorway and into the bustling room.

Officers were going this way and that, one's that the brunet managed to carefully avoid, trying not to add to the already stifling amount of stress that had him so on edge, only for him to run into another officer. He was gifted with a sidelong glare and was quick to apologize, rushing past the man in blue and past the desks where a select few were seated, talking over their phones and leafing through thin case files.

Amidst the bustle, Bruce tried to tune out the noise and racket around him. _None of that matters._ Instead, searching around for the familiar silhouette of Jim Gordon. He didn't see him automatically. It took a couple of glances about the room before the brunets gaze drifted up and, with a stroke of luck, Jim was just on his way down the stairs from the upper floor.

The blond detective was talking over his cellphone with a serious expression on his face, however, this changed when he caught sight of Bruce. He gave the brunet a small, reassuring smile and made a hasty farewell, snapping the phone shut. Side-stepping around a few officers, Bruce managed to make his way over to the other where, thankfully, it thinned out considerably and he could breathe.

Jim was quick to greet him with a casual hug, pulling him in and releasing the brunet almost instantly, looking him up and down. When he deemed Bruce fine, the blonde smiled warmly at him.

"Bruce, it's great to see you," the smile slipped, "but," he almost looked embarrassed as Jim scratched the back of his neck, "is there a reason for your visit?"

Bruce nodded a that. "There is." He paused, feeling the words before deciding to say them. "It's about Jerome." Jim's face fell at that, his eyes looking away from Bruce to around them, assessing who was in hearing range.

"Alright but not here, Bruce." Their gazes met and wordless understanding passed between them as the blond turned, heading back up the stairs, the brunet close behind as they slipped into the empty commissioner's office.

Jim closed the door, making sure to lock it before turning back to the other.

"Sorry," he started, going around Bruce, "we've not had a public announcement that Jerome's back. Only a few people I trust know so far." Jim stopped in front of the desk, placing his hands atop his belt. "I thought it better to keep it under wraps for now. The last thing we need is for people to get more panicked." Bruce, keeping eye contact, nodded, completely in favor of the idea. The whole thing with Jeremiah bombing the clock tower had led to public outrage and many fleeing the city, while others had panicked. If there were to be a statement informing everyone that Jerome had managed to come back from the dead again . . . it would surely cause hysteria and people's faith in the police force would diminish to dangerous new lows.

"It's alright." The brunet stood before him, his hands in his pockets, having taken a further precaution. Why were they still so warm? _It's only because of the future bruises_, Bruce reassured himself. He shifted, standing a bit straighter and taking in the blond, noting the tiredness in his stance and in how he looked back at him. Bruce almost felt bad, wishing he hadn't bothered the other at such a busy time but it was important, at least to him, it was. "I need to know who called you about Jerome's body."

Jim stared at him, opening and closing his mouth before bringing up one hand from his belt, rubbing it through his hair, fixing a few loose strands.

"Why on earth would you want that?"

The brunet almost sighed, why were explanations always needed for these kinds of things. He thought it was rather obvious as to why he wanted to know. Who wouldn't want to know why Jerome had been resurrected again? . . . Surely it wasn't just him who wanted to know? That thought alone had Bruce's eyebrows almost furrowing.

"I've just come from the asylum and-"

"Wait," he held out his hand in a halting motion, seeming baffled at what the billionaire had just admitted. "You went to Arkham?" Jim jerked a thumb in the general direction of the asylum, his expression becoming truly shocked, trying to understand.

"Yes, to visit Jerome."

The blond closed his eyes for a second, re-opening them and giving Bruce a hard look before he stepped closer. "Why would you want to visit him? After all he's done . . . you're best to just leave him rot in Arkham, Bruce." He leaned in closer to the brunet as if the thought of him visiting him wasn't to be said louder than their current voice levels that were barely higher than that of a whisper. "He's not worth our time right now. Especially yours."

"You don't know that." Bruce jumped in, seeing that Jim was about to continue. "We don't know why he was brought back. I don't believe it was a fluke. I think we need to look into it." He said, adamant, almost bringing his hands out to gesture his point before remembering and pushing them further into the dark depths of his pockets.

That tired look on Jim's face spread out, filling out each line, and Bruce could see the wrinkles, one's he'd never seen before, joining in until all he saw was just how exhausted the other one was. The brunet shut his mouth and Jim's gaze fell to the side, thinking.

"Listen," he started, backing back and sitting on the edge of the desk, motioning for Bruce to take the seat which, after a moment, the brunet did. "Ever since Jeremiah and his bombs, the city's been in a complete panic, Bruce. You know this." Sinking into the chair, the brunet met the other's gaze, not feeling all that comfortable in the seat. It made him much lower so Bruce shifted, sitting as straight as he could, placing his hands on both armrests and allowing himself to relax, even if it was farthest from the truth. Jim continued, "and I just don't have the time to be dealing with another Valeska at the moment. Especially one that's currently in Arkham."

Bruce knew what Jim said was the truth. The Valeska that they should be worrying about was Jeremiah. That was the logical side of things. He was a threat. A _major _threat. But . . . there was something about the Jerome one that pulled at the brunets brain, it tugged him to pay attention to it. Focus in on it. Telling him that it was important and he wasn't usually one to ignore his suspicious side like this. It whispered that there was more to it, something sinister going on, if he just dug deeper, he'd find it. And he prayed that it wasn't as bad as what Jeremiah had planned to do with those bombs that they'd . . . that they'd made together.

But the fact of the matter was, simply brushing the Jerom situation under the rug felt like the wrong course of action and the brunet bit his cheek, fighting off a deep frown and his heart clenched within his chest. It was aching. _Hurting_. And his arms and hands were still burning, itching, _growing_.

"I don't think we should be ignoring him, Jim. Safely tucked away in Arkham or not. Ignoring him doesn't seem like the intelligent move here. I know-" he spoke up when he saw Jim close his eyes, issuing a small shake of his head, an evident move of indifference, "I know it sounds crazy and he's just come back and he's still trying to find his bearings but . . . if we ignore him, it may cause more problems."

The detective ran a hand over his face, casting his gaze about the office and out into the other room, watching the officers working, keeping busy. He was silent for a moment but Bruce knew to keep silent.

"And what about Jeremiah?"

Bruce tensed beneath his long jacket and tried to maintain a mutual expression.

"You've been out searching for him . . . haven't you."

The brunet held his tongue. He certainly had been, until Jerome had re-entered the equation, completely diverting his attention away from his former friend.

"At least, you were," Jim said, his voice quiet, somber. "Which I wasn't too keen on, but . . ." His gaze fell back onto the black-clad billionaire. "After what you told me about what happened at the graveyard, between you two," he stopped, taking in the other as if seeing the potential. "You may be the only person who can successfully lure Jeremiah to us."

Bruce's gaze drops to the floor at that, finding it suddenly far more interesting than the assessing eyes on his person.

Jim looks him over for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing and he let out a sigh. "And this whole thing with Jerome has . . . well, it's completely diverted your attention from what's important. Jerome is in _Arkham_, Bruce. " He stated, firmly. "While Jeremiah _isn't_." Jim leans forward at that, dipping his head a little to try and catch the other's eye. It's such a weighted gaze that Bruce finally meets it, hating the feeling of being pinned beneath its pressure. "Right now, _Jeremiah _is a major threat. He could have had more of the bombs on hand and the city . . . us. Can't rest until he's behind bars."

Although Bruce had been listening to Jim's words, it was the last part, the part about how the city couldn't rest, that caught his attention, remembering what he and Jerome had spoken about.

Pushing those intrusive thoughts away, Bruce straightened, his gaze stiff as he stared at the blond. He pressed his lips together in a firm line before opening them.

"It's been one day since Jerome's resurrection." He said it lightly though a bit coldly. "Just because he isn't _your _main focus doesn't mean he's not _mine_." Jim shifted, about to say something when the brunet continued. "Jim, there's something I need to know," Bruce drew himself up to his full height, staring down at the detective with a firm expression and tense jaw, trying to look like the confident and mature adult he knew he could be. "I have to have the name of who called you. The one who told you about Jerome's body so you could take it in. Or was it an anonymous tip?"

The blond worked his mouth for a second, thinking. He thoughtfully traced a finger over the gun holder strapped to his hip, tapping a finger against it when he finished, shifting his weight and meeting the other's serious gaze.

"Alright, alright. I'll let you do what you have to, just be careful and keep an eye out for Jeremiah. If you find out anything call me." Bruce solemnly nodded.

"Of course."

Satisfied, Jim conceded. "The tip wasn't anonymous," standing up from the desk, he went around Bruce, stopping before the file cabinets that lined the far wall, and opened one of the upper drawers. "They gave us a fake name. However, they used a city payphone and was caught on camera by nearby traffic lights. It was enough," he rummaged through the files, new ones, Bruce assumed, "to place a face and then," flicking past a few more, Jim pulled out a very, very thin manila file, "a name." He finished and held the file out to Bruce who took it.

Opening it, the brunet was met with a single piece of paper. It held a name, address, age, and a picture dated a few years back.

A Mr. G. H. Arbor.

The picture was in color, displaying a young twenty-four-year-old man with dirty blond hair, shaved on the sides, staring back at Bruce with what appeared to be black eyes. He forced himself to look at the address once more, feeling those eyes follow him, and noted how it was right across from the cemetery.

"All we know is that he's lived in Gotham his entire life, though . . ." Jim trailed off, leaving Bruce to look at him from over the folder, finding the detective leaning an arm on the open drawer of the cabinet.

"What?"

Jim gave the folder a squinted look of mild consideration, his forehead wrinkling in what Bruce thought could be distress. _Why _he wondered, uncertain all of the sudden, the slim file seemingly became heavier in his gloved hands.

"Mr. Arbo went missing a few years ago. They even found a burned corpse that was identified as his, although," he gave the file one last look, "I couldn't find anything concrete." Bruce stared at him a moment before feeling his eyes drawn back to the photo. Someone who had died and had been pronounced dead? And then seemingly coming back to life? His eyes narrowed a little, _definitely not a coincidence. _

Those black eyes bore into his and Bruce blinked, feeling his hand twitch. He looked at it, surprised to find that the burning sensation now was accompanied by a tingle beneath his skin. He swallowed, a bit bewildered, and closed the file. It was pressed to his chest as the brunet pushed the sleeve up just enough to scratch idly at his wrist, flexing the hand a few times. _Why are you so frequent? _Bruce didn't understand, all Jerome had done was touch him, surely hard enough to bruise but bruises didn't usually do this . . . did they? He tried to remember the last time he'd gotten bruised but didn't get far.

"You alright?" Jim eyed him curiously, worry right under that.

The billionaire gave a brisk nod, forcing himself to stop and ignore the heated skin. "Yes, I'm fine."

A moment of silence passed between them.

"Are you going to be visiting Jerome again?" The blond asked his voice light, a hint of caution and worry laced throughout it that Bruce almost smiled at. It was familiar and made him feel just a little bit better to know he wasn't as alone as he thought.

"I plan too, I have a few questions I'm hoping he'll eventually answer."  
Jim shut the cabinet, a loud click emanating from it. "You honestly expect him to answer your questions?"

"Yes." Bruce automatically confirmed, no doubt to be found in his voice or expression as he met the others gaze with a sense of assuredness. "It may not be immediate, but Jerome _does _talk."

Jim was silent for a second or two, thinking over what he wanted to say and the best way to say it.

"Just . . ." the detective made to move closer to Bruce -perhaps even place a hand on his shoulder- but opted to cross them over his chest. "Just be careful around him. Don't let your guard down. It _is _Jerome after all." The brunet blinked at that, he hadn't let his guard down, although, in Arkham, he had lessened his resolve enough so to bend somewhat to the redhead's will. No much. But he most certainly wasn't going to be relaying to Jim that he'd allowed the other a decent amount of physical touch. He knew Jim well enough to believe he'd find that to be the wrong way to deal with an inmate, especially when that inmate was Jerome Valeska. And who knew what the detective would do if he knew about that, would he try and make it so he couldn't return? He'd try and talk him out of it, that was a given. But Jim would have one hell of a time trying to change his mind, not when Bruce had to know. It was like an aggravation beneath his skin, blistering and infecting the longer he left the mystery unsolved. Nothing could keep him away. Not even Jeremiah . . . .

If Jeremiah was still himself, how would he have reacted to Jerome's revival?

He had seen a mock version at the graveyard, right before Jeremiah had turned on him and showed his true colors. Bruce had seen him act it out, turning it into a whole spectacle, though he doubted it would be that way now. Gone would be the fear he was sure.

"Bruce?"

The billionaire cleared his throat automatically, blinking rapidly to focus on Jim who had placed a hand on his shoulder. Its grip was meant to be comforting yet all he could sense was the concern in how it tightened around it. Though the grip was nothing like that of the redhead's.

"You ok?" Jim peered at him, taking in his features. "You didn't respond when I asked what you plan to do next?"

Swallowing, Bruce fingered the file in his hands, it still felt heavy and he worried he'd drop it. "I'm going to be looking into this." He brought the file up halfway, giving it a tiny shake to emphasize that he was talking about it.

At the movement, Jim's gaze lowered to the file, his expression changing once more, a small frown finding its way to his lips that was gone the moment he met Bruce's eyes.  
"You mean . . .now?"

"Absolutely."

"Why not wait until tomorrow and continue _this_," Jim gestured his head to the file in question, "tomorrow after you've gotten some sleep?"

_No,_ Bruce instinctively wants to say. It's right there, on his tongue, on the very tip, burning along the edge of it. Sleep was the farthest thing from his mind. It was the last thing he needed or wanted. Had he slept well the other night? No, not at all, he'd been kept up by his mind becoming a bloody merry-go-round that had continued its loops well into the morning hours. But that didn't matter at the moment. Sleep could come later. _After _he visited the address.

"Thank you for your concern, Jim. But I'm alright." He stepped away from the detective, the hand falling from his shoulder as he did. "And thank you for the file." Bruce gave him a curt nod and a small smile. "Goodbye."

"Bye Bruce. Be careful."

The brunet curled his hand around the file, ignoring its weight and the strange feeling curling up and down his arms. When it was securely in his grip, the paper's not in peril of falling out, did Bruce open the office door.

Stepping back out into the fray, the brunet shut the door and, passing by a few officers, made his way back down the steps. Unlike when he'd come in, Bruce knew what to expect and evaded everyone, becoming a swift and dark shadow amongst them, only becoming visible when he seemed to materialize before the door. He didn't bother looking back as he disappeared down the hall and out the front door.

The sun, which had just broken out of the constant stream of clouds, shone down on Bruce as he made his way over to their car. He cast a look up at it just as another cloud passed over it, engulfing the warm light once more.

* * *

**Author:** Oh, it's been SO LONG! I am so sorry it took me forever to get this chapter out and it's not even that long *tired sounds* but I was hit with the desire to, under no circumstances, write. Which, to me, is Even Worse then writer's block. But thank you all who reviewed during this time, seeing them really helped me to at least force myself to sit down and try to get something onto the doc.  
Anyway, I hope you like this chapter! Please review if you get a moment, I love them so much and they mean everything to me to see what you think.  
Be seeing you guys soon! Have a wonderful day, luvs~

-Jinx of the desert


	9. Chapter 9

By the time Bruce had reached downtown, the skies had opened up, washing out the streets and turning them an inky black. Above came the constant rumbles of thunder and the lightning lit the sky up with long gashes of white. They had stalked him from the manor, companions he would rather be without.

In the corner of his eye, the dash read fifteen minutes past two. It switched over to sixteen as he turned onto the road his address was on.

Seeing that no one was behind him, Bruce slowed the car to a crawl and peered out his window. He squinted up at the numbers on the duplexes he found. All of them were in bad repair. Their paint peeling, windows cracked, garbage littered about, and their colors seemingly drained from the once painted bricks. In many ways, it reminded him of Arkham, with their twin marks of disrepair and ever-growing cracks. Both were depressing, but while Arkham was devoid of sanity, this place was devoid of life. There was no one around, not even a stray dog running about.

Unsettled, Bruce tried to spot the numbers on the duplexes. To his irritation, he found that most were hardly legible, worn away due to neglect. Others were conveniently obscured by thick bushes that rustled in the breeze.

On passing the third duplex, Bruce shifted in his seat to peer behind him at it. At this angle, he could just make out a set of numbers. The car came to a stop as he compared them to the ones in the file. He heaved a sigh, another mismatch, as the first two before it. He continued on, looking at each building as the car sloshed through growing puddles that created a distorted image of the vehicle.

As the duplexes on the left side fell away, revealing the graveyard, Bruce found his gaze shifting away from the right, away from his _goal_, to there instead.

Like the street, it was void of people. _Well, living people_, he amended. He became disconcerted at the place seeming, in his eyes, untouched by time itself. Even the mist hovering only inches off the ground, growing thicker, swirling around the markers, was just as he remembered.

A familiar rapid beep fills the car, breaking Bruce's train of thought. Instinctively, he removes a hand from the wheel and pulls out his flip phone. Its little screen glows, indicating a new text. Flipping it open, he gives it a quick read and, using one hand, types out a response to assure Alfred, once again, that _yes_, he's alright. Pocketing it, he turns to look back at the graveyard. His eyes jump from row to row, having memorized who was where, he still counts though, just in case.

Third row, fifth, seventh, _eighth_.

From there, it's only four graves in. He can just see it from there. A sense of wistfulness curls within the brunet's chest. There's a lump suddenly in his throat, making it difficult to swallow. It becomes a burning sensation that rises right up behind his eyes, where it smolders until he has to blink away the start of tears andー

A loud car horn sounds and Bruce jumps. He jerks, blinking rapidly and realizes he had taken his foot off the gas pedal. Bruce takes a quick breath and goes to press down the pedalーonly for the car to drive around him, its window rolling down, in passing, so the driver can give him the finger.

Frowning in distaste, the brunet's eyes fell back to the graveyard. He stares at those two markers a moment or two longer, allowing himself these few seconds. When his chest begins to tighten does Bruce look past it, to the ninth and onwards to the eleventh. There's a specific grave there too. Just one this time. And he knows it well, even if he's only been there once . . . with Jeremiah. It was Jerome's and Bruce knew well enough that the grave hadn't been refilled. It was a hole in the ground, open for all to see, a soulless marker with a now false date of death.

Bruce swallows at the brief flickers of memories that are drudged up, back to the day he had woken up in that grave, staring up at the sky, feeling the body, cold and stiff beneath him. Giving a firm shake to rid himself of the shiver and smell of earth in his nostrils, Bruce forces himself to focus on the right side of the street, putting his back to the graveyard.

Unlike before (or, perhaps he hadn't noticed) Bruce finds that the duplexes loom overhead, casting a shadow over both him and his car as he begins driving once more, still going slow. Thunder rumbles once more, almost angrily, and Bruce ignores it.

It was the third to last duplex that, through the wind-shield wipers, Bruce managed to catch sight of the number and, after a quick look, _yes_, it matched the files.

Shutting said file, he shoved it under the seat before pulling up to the curb. With a sputter, the car goes silent and for the sound of rain pelting it to grow louder. It's all Bruce can hear. It pounds, relentless.

"Should have brought an umbrella," he mutters, yanking out a pair of gloves from the middle compartment. They're quickly pulled on and the thick jacket zipped firmly shut.

With a quick look outside and a deep breath, Bruce opens the door and slips out from the car. A puddle meets his shoes and water seeps into them, soaking into the sock. He looks down, frowning, and shuts the door. This was already off to a great start.

Giving another glance around his surroundings and deeming it still quite dead, Bruce rounds the car and starts up the stairs. They divide halfway up, leading to either front door, he gives the other that's not his address a look. No movement, no sign of recent entry. No one's entered that place in sometime. It's ignorable, which is what he does, setting his sight back on the left one.

The door, just like the cracked steps, are in disrepair. Once upon a time, they were probably a pretty white, only to now be a dismal grey for reasons he'd rather not know. As he stops before it, there's the inkling that no one lives here, but he ignores it, remaining still and listening. There's no movement from inside, none behind one of the boarded windows or on the other with its torn curtain hanging over half of its cracked glass.  
A minute passes, then three, but Bruce still doesn't move. The need to wait keeps him still, hardly breathing. But there's nothing, only the wind giving small moans as it wraps around the buildings and the rain hitting the overhang. Once five whole minutes pass and still nothing, Bruce makes the decision. _No one here, _he thinks, stepping up to the door, _probably hasn't been for some time. _He jiggles the doorknob, it's locked and the door doesn't give when pressure is applied.

Pressing his lips in a thin line, the brunet cast's a sweeping look behind him. Still no one. Not a single human-made sound. And he can't see any movement down the street or amongst the graves across it. It's just him. Relieved, although still tense, Bruce takes out one of the picks from his pocket. The tension wrench slides easily into the bottom of the lock and, when it's situated, he rummages through the pocket once more. The first he takes out is wrong and he sticks it between his teeth, holding it steady to continue digging. On the second try, he locates the right one and pushes it into the upper part of the lock. Jaw locked around the pick, Bruce shifted both just a little. With the movement, he could tell just how the lock moved, where the tension was. Knowing that wasn't the right fit, he withdrew the top one and stuck that in-between his teeth too.

Again, he dug, feeling around and grabbing another. This new one replaced the old and Bruce moved them again. A smile tugged at his lips as the picks turned simultaneously and the lock gave an audible click.

Removing all the picks (from the lock and his mouth) he shoved them back into his pocket and stood up, pushing the door open as he did. Casting one last look about, Bruce lipped inside.

Upon entering, he was met with a small staircase on his right and a narrow hallway going past it on his left. The air inside was stale, with a hint of mold and dust added in just to drive home the idea that the place was empty.

But Bruce was well aware that such things could be deceiving.

For all he knew, there were people living here. Not to mention, the place definitely had a basement from what he'd seen outside. Which meant there could be another entrance, probably through the basement or a back door. That alone had Bruce remaining light on his feet, almost going so far as to grab his extending baton from a hidden pocket in his coat; he didn't though, at least not yet. Instead, he dove into another pocket, bringing out his phone and silencing it.

Taking deep, quiet breaths, the brunet looked up the stairs, to the landing. It was shadowed, but he could just make out a door on the right and a sharp turn on the left.

There was a part of him that wanted to go up there first, but he decided against it and went down the hallway until he came to a large living room. The whole area was covered in dust and what skimpy array of furniture was turned over and scattered about like leaves in the wind.

Bruce silently took it in. His stomach rolled at the loneliness that seemed to seep out from the torn carpet and the dripping fireplace that yawned up at him like a black hole. With a grim frown, he moved onto the kitchen. Like the former, it too was a horrid sight. Where once a microwave and stove had been, were now empty, the stain left behind, a shadowed reminder to the present. The ground was covered in mud and leaves that clung to his shoes. Above, cobwebs hung like a long mane of hair. Seeing it, Bruce kept his head hunched, turning up the collar of his jacket just in case.

In the very corner of the kitchen, almost as if it were an afterthought, is a door that he finds hanging off its hinges and, past it, stairs that descend down into a blackened basement. Not at all discouraged, Bruce grabs his flashlight from another pocket, shining it down the stairs. With it, the lower floor looks unlived in. There is no relief in that possibility though. He doesn't believe it, _can't _believe it. At least, not until he's actually checked it.

Unease creeps down his spine like cold water. Bruce makes his way down, cautious and searching about with the flashlight. The steps creak under his weight, dust drifting up and down from them in thick clouds. There's the sound of thunder that's just audible, it's otherworldly down in this dark pit, as if, sometime during his descent, he's crossed over to somewhere else.

A few steps down and Bruce is hit with a horrid smell, one that has him covering his nose with a sleeve. From scent alone, he can't tell what it is but doesn't drop his hand.

At the bottom he lets the light fall about the area. It's a small basement, just one room with a cement floor. There's a large, dirty rug spread out, trying to hide the sources of the smell: black mold spreading out from each corner where there is standing water that glints as the light slides over it.

Withholding a gag, Bruce heads back up. He'd seen enough.

Once the door is firmly closed behind him, does he drop his sleeve and take deep, greedy gulps of air. The smell, however, followed him upstairs, tickling in the back of his nasal passages. It makes him wish he hadn't ventured into the basement. _Too late now, _he thinks with a lack of amusement, leaving the kitchen behind him to instead venture upstairs. He finds himself in another hallway, facing a grimy bathroom that, when he peeks in, has a tub filled with dark, soupy water and the smell has him wrinkling his nose. It's not as bad as the basement but enough to still drive him down the hall, checking the other rooms.

The first two are nothing but garbage and as Bruce finds himself standing in the master bedroom, he's hit with a rush of disappointment. All the drawers are pulled out and empty, well, besides the garbage within and littering every corner of the room.

The wind is whistling in through the cracked windows and the rain splatters against it.

There was nothing.

A frown crossed his face, gazing out the window in dismay and finding himself peering down at the graveyard.

"I don't get it," he muttered, brushing a hand over the arm of his coat, shaking off the water drops that collected onto his leather glove. "Why would someone publicly known to bed, call in a body? Why allow people to find out?" He brushed his hand against the windowpane, tapping at the wood that cushioned under it due to its water damage.

"It's possible they wanted others to know . . ." The possibility was heavy on his tongue. It wasn't ludicrous. It happened all the time in Gotham but what was there to gain in this situation?

Trying to consider all the options, Bruce checked the upper floor one more time; when again he came up with nothing, he made his way downstairs and out the front door. Coming down the stairs, Bruce finds the rain had let up some, the thick drops having been reduced to a thin drizzle.

Water trickled from his hair down the back of his neck and under his shirt, but he didn't bother with it, he was too busy debating his theories and fighting back disappointment. He stepped from the curb, rounding the car, and stopped.

Blue eyes slid from the comfort of the vehicle to the graveyard.

Bruce stood there, silent, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The water from the puddle he had stepped in fills his shoes, soaking into his socks. But Bruce doesn't even feel it, there's just him and the rainfall.

Adamant and shoving his hands into his pockets, the brunet crosses the street, taking his time and ignoring the splashes his feet make. The grass squishes and squelches beneath him as he passes the eighth row. He doesn't stop at it though he does look at it as he passes, eyes longingly going over that one grave, the one he knows too well and yet not well enough. He turns down the eleventh instead, following the line of graves all the way to the middle.

The un-earthed pile of dirt greets him, still neatly piled up to one side of the tall grave. Bruce gives the stone a brief glance as he stops beside it then focuses his full attention on the gaping hole in the ground below him. It's pitch black in it now and filled with water from the rain, the wet surface rippling as the drizzle meets it.

Bruce feels a shiver go down his arms, his spine, and his legs. There were fractions of recollections just staring up at him from that pit. Memories of the damp earth; walls on all sides, boxing him in; waking up, only to stare up at the darkened sky; moving and knowing that the thing below him was a corpse.

Shaking both the memories and the chill away that threaten to fill his bones, Bruce tears his gaze from the hole only to tense. In the very next row ahead of him is another person.

He blinks, unable to stop himself from staring.

There was a moment of paranoia. He would have heard him approach, right? _Given that everything's wet, undoubtedly,_ his eyes narrow at the other person's back, their head seemingly tilted down, looking at a grave.

Wary, Bruce wonders whether or not to leave when the person looks over his shoulder.

Their gazes lock.

Bruce stiffens further. It's _him_. The hair appears to be longer and the face gaunter. But it's him; the man from the file. The man that was proclaimed dead.

Neither of them speaks although they're close enough to hear each other.

Arbor is the first to react, his gaze sliding away and up to the sky, staring at the mass of clouds. It lingers there a moment, tracing before going back to stare at the grave he's before.

"Not shocked, I see." The voice is higher than expected and tired.

Pursing his lips, Bruce steps from his line and into the other, coming closer to the man.

"No. I'm not."

"That's to be expected, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce feels his eyes narrow, curious yet cautious as Arbor looks at him from the corner of his eye, a hint of what could be a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"You know who I am?"

"Everyone in Gotham knows who you are."

Bruce remains silent, now standing side to side with the blond; he peers down at the grave, it's the very same name of who he finds himself speaking to. Seeing it and the look in the other's gaze, Bruce can't help but speak, to question,_ to know more._

"You were believed to be dead," there's no reaction from Arbor. "So why contact the G.C.P.D.? Why give up the cover you had?" He forced himself to stop talking, watching the other's face for a clue, a twitch, anything to answer him.

None came.

Arbor was as still as his grave, looking just as pale as a corpse should, though his chest rose with even breaths. However, his eyes rose to bore into Bruce's.

"It wasn't for me to decide."

The brunet raised an eyebrow, "someone made you?"

There was a shake of Arbor's head and Bruce grit his teeth, taking a breath. He hadn't come all this way to not get answers.

"Did you bring the body you found back to life?" He pressed further.

There was a tenseness in the brunet's stomach, his heart pounding in his chest, his arms prickling. He had to know. _Why? Why Jerome? Why out of everyone, him? _

"Not exactly," came the slow reply.

Bruce stepped closer; Arbor hardly responded to the proximity.

"What does that mean? Tell me, Arbor."

There's a shrug and Arbor puts his hands in his pockets, shifting to fully face Bruce.

"I simply do their bidding."

Bruce peered hard at him, his arms suddenly burning beneath his jacket, and his desperation sky-rocketed, unable to help the anger at the obvious beating around the bush.

"Whose bidding?!"

The need to know is clawing in Bruce's chest, it's aching, his hands clenched so tightly that they're going numb.

Arbor doesn't answer, instead, he turns away and taking a few steps away, as if he were about to leave. But Bruce is quick to follow, only to stop mid-step as the other halts before him.

"I can't answer much if anything," he murmured, taking a hand out from his pocket and staring intently down at it. There was something clenched in it. Something Bruce couldn't see. It set him on edge. Surely Arbor wouldn't do anything violent, would he? He hoped not, but still, he pushed his hands into his own pockets, grasping the unextended baton; it did nothing for the sensation in his gut.

"All I know . . . is that I was the one that had to find him," Bruce hardly heard the mere whisper, his heart was pounding so loudly.

"If not you," the words are hoarse and Bruce swallows, clearing his throat, "then who? Who brought him back?"

But Arbor was no longer listening. He had brought whatever was in his hand up to his mouth; still, Bruce failed to see what it was.

"Did you hear me? Arbor?"

Aggravated and on edge, Bruce rounded the blonde with a frown.

"Answer me, Ar-" The words died on his lips, eyes going wide. Arbor's shoulders were shaking. He was coughing, hacking, covering his mouth and backing away. All Bruce could do was stare, his hands coming up to reach for him, to do . . . _something_, anything to help. But Arbor keeps walking backward, shaking his head almost instinctively at this point. Between the fingers Bruce spotted the froth coming from the blonde's parted lips.

"Arbor, let me help!" The brunet jerks forward, grabbing a flailing hand that clutches onto him, only to shove him away the next second and for Arbor to drop onto the ground, falling on his side. The hand had slipped from his mouth, cupping desperately at his throat instead.

Following him down, Bruce tried to help but Arbor kept pushing away, still choking; the coughs and gags worsened, turning into gurgles until the blonde squirmed on to his back, his face wrenched back, trying to get air.

Wide-eyed and shaking, Bruce stopped, finding Arbor was quite still in his hold, the arms limp and eyes staring past him, unseeing. His lips were still open, the white froth dribbling over his cheek, dripping onto both Bruce's sleeve and the ground, creating a stain and puddle.

Silent, Bruce brought his fingers up, pressing them to the still warm neck.

There was no pulse.

Finding himself numb and mouth dry, the brunet's eyes drifted to the other's pocket, the one he'd pulled something from earlier. Without stopping to consider, he reached into it, grasping and pulling a see-through bag that contained about six pills. They were entirely white, with no insignia or anything. He slipped them into his pocket for later inspection.

Standing up, Bruce found himself shaky, his arms hands trembling and arms burning. He ran his hands over them, trying to rid himself of the sensation. When the sensation had lessened somewhat, he reached for his phone. _I've got to call this in, _he flipped it open, surprised to find that there were two missed calls from the blonde already. It made him even more uneasy as he dialed the number.

"Bruce! Thank goodness," came the familiar voice through the speaker, and Bruce tried not to look down at the body at his feet. "Alfred called me. Did you find the address?"

"Yes . . . I did."

"And?"

". . . I found him."

There was surprised silence.

"You did?"

"Yes, but I didn't get much out of him before . . . well he decided to take something. He's dead, Jim."

A sigh followed, a tired one, and Bruce could just picture the other with a hand on his forehead, rubbing at the forming wrinkles.

"I'll send someone over as quickly as I can. I'd love to hear what you found out later though." There was a noise in the background as if Jim was in a car. "Just stay there and-"

"Are you driving?"

" . . . Yeah, about that," Jim cleared his throat, "Listen, you said you went to see Jerome earlier, right?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "This morning I did. Why? Did something happen?"

"Something actually did. I got a call just a few minutes ago and am on my way to Arkham. Apparently Jerome tried to blow up his room."

Bruce stared out across the water, eyes wide.

"He _what_?"

"I know, surprised me too, but this _is_ Jerome we're talking about and-"

"You're sure it was him?"

"Well, the administrator at Arkham sure as hell thinks it's him and I can see why. One day back and I'm sure he wants to get out." Jim slips into silence. "But there's no reason to be worried, Bruce. He won't get out. I'll make sure of it." He adds, voice a little rushed, obviously thinking Bruce's silence was him worrying over the situation.

He tugged his gloves more firmly on and, giving one last, saddened glance at Arbor's body, set out for his car. He was needed elsewhere, they'd get the body.

"Bruce?"

Climbing into the car, Bruce shut the door and started it up. "I'm going to Arkham."

"Bruce, no. Let me handle this, alright? It's police business at this point and it's best you stay with the body so we can find it easier." Bruce tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

"Was he in his room?"

"What?"

"Jerome. Was he in his cell when it blew?"

"They didn't say."

Bruce stared out the windshield a moment.

"Jim, I'm going. You'll get there before me, when you do, ask that. I want to know when I get there. And tell whoever you send out here that the body is in the tenth line of graves, can't miss it."

"Bruce, I don't think-" Bruce didn't hear the rest, having snapped it shut and tossing it onto the passenger seat. He drove back, ignoring the first jingle, and the second, and the fourth.

He drove through town, mindful, even though his mind was miles away, already at Arkham, already seated across a laughing redhead and trying to work out what the hell was going on.

* * *

**Author:**

Hey, luvs! It's been foreverrrrr. Oh my gosh I can't believe how insane everything went. This chapter took so long and gave me absolute hell, not gonna lie. Sorry there's no Jerome yet but he WILL be in the next chapter, that I can promise.

And to everyone who commented during these past few months, thank you so much!  
Hope you enjoy the chapter, leave a comment if you can 3

-Jinx of the desert


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